Heaven was Never Home
by tarsus4survivor
Summary: When Castiel travels back in time he replaces the old Castiel and helps the Winchesters from his standing in heaven, but heaven was never a kind place to be and as Sam and Dean grow closer to their spy, they quickly realize that something is wrong. One-shots more than a coherent story-line.
1. Chapter 1

Sam didn't see the child until it was too late. They tugged on Cas's coat and Sam watched as the being turned rigidly, his hand twitching like he was about to manifest an angel-blade. Oh shit. Sam jerked forward slightly, about to intervene, but then Cas looked down and his face softened and Sam froze.

Cas crouched down to put himself closer to the little girl's height. "Hello," he said, and the grit in his voice was that of a lakebed instead of a mountain.

Dean turned. His eyes went hard and he looked like he was about to step forward, so Sam grabbed his sleeve and held him back, watching the interaction intently.

The little girl smiled at Cas, cheeks bulging. Her hair was a ratty mess, her coat sleeves stained with something unidentifiable.

"Sara," Cas said, softer than Sam had ever heard him, "wasn't it?"

Dean's eyes went wide. So did Sam's.

The little girl nodded her head up and down, her hair bouncing. She grinned like she'd just gotten a pony on Christmas. "You remembered!"

He nodded carefully back, but without the awkwardness Sam had come to expect from the angel.

"Without the 'h'."

Her smile brightened so much it had to hurt, and, in a move that set both Winchester's rigid, she tipped herself forward and threw her arms around Cas.

Cas didn't hesitate in returning the embrace, wrapping his arms around her in a loose hug.

"Thank you," she whispered, and her hands fisted in his coat. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

A few minutes later, she trailed over to a tired looking woman, who took her hand and led her away.

The Winchester's don't ask. Cas doesn't tell.

* * *

Dean trailed away from the char marks on the floor and shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugging his shoulders up to ward off the cold. He didn't realize until he was already in the car and leaning over to shove his duffel in the backseat (the trunk was drowning in holy oil) that Cas was still in the house. Dean frowned. He'd usually fluttered off by now.

Dean was an inch from putting the keys in the ignition when he sighed and looked back over at the open door. Cas was crouching now, his torso twisted so far that his head was practically on the floor, and he had a hand reaching beneath that horrible old couch. The one that looked fit to fall apart.

Dean shoved his keys back in his pocket and got out of the car, twisting up his collar. A moment later, his feet were planted right in front of the angel's face.

"Whatcha got there Cas?"

Cas didn't flinch. Just inched closer to the couch, and his arm had disappeared up to the elbow. His head dropped sideways to the floor and his gaze followed his arm. "It's nothing, Dean," he finally said, reaching further, "go back to your home."

There was something in the way he said it, _home, _like it was the most sacred thing in the world. It reminded Dean of the way Sammy used to talk about going to college, before their dad had screwed it into some kind of betrayal, and even after, when it had been seemingly unattainable and the excitement had turned into something deeper. It had been something he'd wanted desperately but resigned himself out of, and his love for it, even the idea of it, had made him smile and talk for hours on end. That's what Cas sounded like, like it wasn't something Dean could possibly pass up—going _home—_and for a moment, Dean was taken aback.

Then something—not quite a creak and not quite a howl, but scary in it's in-betweenness—seeped up from the couch.

Cas pulled his hand back, and Dean caught a glimpse of red scratches before they were gone.

He swallowed. Was there such a thing as baby hellhounds?

"Whatcha got there, Cas?" Dean repeated, and something must have given him away, because Cas tilted his head up at him.

"A small feline," he said.

It took a moment before Dean understood and relaxed. "A kitten, Cas?"

"No, I believe he is full-grown. Just small." Cas stuck his arm back under the couch.

"Okay. So...what are you doing with it?"

"He's cold. And hungry."

"So just leave it, man. Cats can fend for themselves."

"He shouldn't have to," Cas said, and there was definitely something deeper here but Dean was tired and cold and he didn't want to figure it out.

Another horrible sound drifted up from the couch, sort of like the ghost had earlier, and Dean had to force himself not to take a step back.

"We'll he's never gonna come _out_. Not with you jamming your arm under there like that."

Cas moved his arm beneath the couch, still staring below its base. "Well then what would you suggest Dean?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe some cat-food."

Cas froze. He glared at Dean. Then he moved his arm deeper, sweeping it toward the back of the couch. "Unfortunately, I don't have any cat-food."

Right. Yeah. Cas didn't even eat human food. Dean wondered if he even knew how to get any. "Well was it the ghost dude's?" Dean pointed to the charred area of the floor. "Maybe there's some in the kitchen."

* * *

"Help her!" Dean screamed. "Cas you sonuvabitch, help her!"

The girl was a choking writhing mass on the floor, some horrific result of demons and witches trying and failing to join forces—and she couldn't breathe. Couldn't Cas see that?

Uriel was a glowering, dark presence behind them. "Castiel," he said, steady and demanding. "Help her."

Cas looked between them. They were asking for very different things.

Uriel stepped closer, an angel blade dropping into his hand. "Help her or move aside."

Cas leaned out of the other angel's presence, but he didn't actually move. His eyes were on Uriel's blade. "Brother, don't do this. She can still be saved."

"She's an abomination, Castiel. She doesn't deserve your pity."

"She deserves more than this."

"Move aside, Castiel."

A look passed between the brothers, indeterminable but fierce. Then Uriel broke forward and Cas quickly slunk to the side.

"What the hell, Cas!"

"Castiel, please." Sam took a step forward. "Please just help her."

Uriel plunged the blade forward. "He is."

* * *

Dean started to notice.

Most of the angels were rigid and stiff and Cas was too, but differently. The way he held himself was closer to 'it hurts to move' and 'don't draw attention to yourself' than 'I am immovable and don't require human functions such as breathing'. But Cas _was_ breathing. Looked like it, anyway; his chest folding in and out. The other angels' ribcages were eerily still.

Dean frowned.

Another angel—Uriel, actually—moved up beside Castiel and Dean really didn't like the way the smaller angel shied away. It was hardly noticeable, just a small shift of balance. A half-step to the side that made off like he was trying to block the exit, but he'd been a solid block of granite the moment before and Dean just stared at him.

Cas didn't care about personal space. Cas didn't _notice_ personal space… Did he?

Then Zachariah came up on the other side of Cas, babbling some nonsense, and Cas actually leaned noticeably away, features twinging in almost panic. He took a slow step back in Uriel's direction, as though to make room for the other angel, staying small and still—and when had he stopped breathing? Cas's head jerked just slightly, like his lungs were vying for air and he'd denied them. Dean really, really didn't like it. He'd never seen Cas this docile, this self-conscious, this… what was this?

Dean's gaze shifted to Zachariah, and he wouldn't've noticed before, but the archangel was pressing into Castiel's space, waving a hand close to Cas's face and the angel was watching it carefully, almost as though his life depended on it. Dean didn't hear what Zach said next, but he saw the way Cas swallowed and inhaled and somehow shrunk even smaller.

The room had gone silent. Dean looked back over at Zachariah, who had an eyebrow raised, waiting expectantly.

"No." Dean said, because it didn't matter what the bastard had said or asked or suggested. All that mattered was that suddenly Cas was breathing again, his lips twitching toward a sad little smile.

Zachariah stepped forward and Cas shied carefully, minutely backwards, his face once again blank, his chest still.

"No?!"

Dean forced his eyes back to Zach. "What?" he snapped, tired and frayed and sick of being on edge all the time.

"_You_ don't tell _me_ 'no'."

"Whatcha gonna do about it, _Zach_?"

Dean didn't miss the way Cas's eyes flicked to the side, his head twitching like he wanted to look behind him. His shoulders had tensed just enough to be noticeable.

Dean narrowed his eyes and scanned the crowd of angels, trying to find what Cas couldn't turn to look at. Unfortunately, nothing stood out. It managed to set Dean even more on edge nonetheless.

He turned his head to check on Sam standing next to him.

Sam was looking at him, waiting.

Dean just stared blankly back. "What?"

Sam looked pointedly to Zachariah.

Dean followed his gaze. "Did you say something?" he asked. And if he managed to sound annoyed and demeaning, as though he'd heard what the angel said but had been ignoring him, so what?

A muscle clenched in Zachariah's jaw. Cas took another careful little half-step back. Dean clenched his fists. What the hell had he done to make Cas react like that?

"Maybe I should show you instead." Zachariah said, breaking forward, and Dean frantically patted his pockets for a weapon, his mind too spaced to remember if he even had any.

But then Sam was stepping between them. "Forgive us, Zachariah. Dean didn't get much sleep last night." He shot a glare at Dean. "I don't know what's wrong with him. But if you'll give us a couple days to consider the offer, I'm sure we can come up with something."

Zachariah was still staring at Dean, whose eyes had been drawn back to Castiel. Zachariah followed his gaze, frowning. "Right," he said, and then he straightened, eyes still on Castiel—and crap, Dean had drawn attention to him. "Two days. You won't hear from us before then."

The angels vanished.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam's alone when Cas comes. The angel is stiff—more so than usual—when he walks with Sam all the way back to the impala. "Thanks, Cas."

"For what?"

"Coming, I guess. I sort of thought your job was to protect Dean or something."

Cas frowns. He grabs Sam's shoulder to stop him. "We're Team Free Will, Sam. All of us. You are my friend as much as Dean is."

"Team Free Will."

"Yes."

"Where'd you get that from? A t.v show or something?"

"From someone in my past," he says. "I was very confused the first time I heard it. I thought it meant a group of people rescuing someone named Will."

"It doesn't?"

Castiel smiles, and Sam loves the feel of it. Not judging or mocking or haughty. He looks relieved, actually. Eager to be helpful.

"Agency was God's gift to man. A will to make choices. To choose freely."

"Oh my god," says Sam, "free will. I get it now. Thank you. That makes so much more sense. I can't wait to tell Dean."

Dean laughs.

* * *

"I _could_ sleep."

"But…"

Cas just tilts his head at him. "But then I'd have to wake up."

Dean goes still. "Cas…?"

Cas shakes his head, two fingers extended. "Go to sleep, Dean." His voice grows foggy. "I'll watch over you."

* * *

Dean can't stop noticing.

Cas has been rolling his shoulders all day. At first, Dean thought he'd learned to shrug—and isn't it just great that he's going to use the gesture to avoid real communication—but that isn't it.

They're at the bunker, recovering from a case in which Cas had come in at the last second and saved their asses. He'd followed them home, which isn't unusual, unfortunately.

Dean starts to wonder what he's avoiding.

Cas rolls his shoulders again, shifting them up and forward and then slowly letting them fall back down.

Dean frowns. He gestures to Cas, "What is that?"

Sam spins around to look, eyebrows furrowed in silent question.

Cas stares back at Dean, expression unreadable. "What?"

"That thing you keep doing with your shoulders."

The angel stiffens. "I'm not doing anything."

"You are. You keep shifting them. Do they itch or something?"

"No. This vessel is perfectly intact."

Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to cleaning his gun.

A few minutes later, Cas moves again; curls his shoulders forward and holds them there, leaning away from the back of the chair but still somehow rigidly straight. His face is pinched.

Dean sets down his gun and walks over behind Cas's chair. He sets a hand on the angel's shoulder, mouth opening—and Cas jolts away, slamming into the table. He spins around to Dean standing with his hands raised. "Sorry, man. Are you hurt?"

"It doesn't concern you." His head tilts. "I'm needed in heaven."

And Cas is gone.

* * *

"Cas..?" Sam asks.

The angel turns.

"What's heaven like?"

"It's different for everyone."

"But for you—for angels, I mean."

"The heaven we normally go to is similar to an office building."

"And that's it?"

"I do like to visit other heavens, on occasion. And there's a park—a garden, really—this heaven made for a man who was autistic in his life. He sits all day on this hill of green, flying a kite. Free and safe and peaceful. I… I like to visit. Just to sit there, with him. I haven't had time lately. Zachariah followed me one day—he—the other angels don't understand why I like it. But it's just so beautiful. So simple…"

"It sounds amazing, Cas."

* * *

The angel had gone rogue. Snapping about the Winchesters and Lucifer and destiny. He nearly killed Sam. Dean just managed to banish him. Sam is unconscious. Then Cas is there and Sam is healed.

"I'm sorry," the angel says. Dean has no idea what for. "I should have showed you sooner."

"Showed us what sooner?"

"There's another way for you to...another way to deal with angels."

He shows them holy fire. And when the rogue angel comes back, he burns.

* * *

More angels start to attack them. More often. They're surrounded when Cas and two other angels appear to help them fight.

It's not enough. The Winchesters use the banishing sigil.

When the 'righteous' angels next appear, some dick named Joshua punches Dean in the face. Cas pulls him back but he's still snarling. "You killed her," he says, "Muriel. You killed her."

"If she was attacking me then hell yeah I killed her."

"She was fighting _for_ you! You idiot! You banished her when she was already hurt and she died because of it."

Dean's eyes widen. He turns to Cas. Cas nods, eyes grim. "The sigil is...unkind when an angel is wounded. I am grieved but it was necessary."

Joshua turns and punches Cas. Cas takes it. It and every hit that comes after.

* * *

Cas is rolling his shoulders again. He always is.

He's taken to staying the night.

* * *

This is it. Dean is going to die here, he's sure of it. The demon has a hand on his throat and black is flooding his vision.

But then Cas is there, flaring with light, and Dean can breathe again. He falls onto the floor, groaning but looking around for Sam. Sam is on the floor a few feet away, looking haggard but very much alive.

The demons are down. Cas stands a little ways off, facing away from them. The back of his trenchcoat is dark—covered in shadow. The angel turns.

"Hello, Dean, Sam." He looks haggard too. Shadowed eyes and a slump to his shoulders.

"Hey, Cas." Dean coughs.

Cas cracks his knees dropping down beside the brothers. He reaches out to touch their heads and then Dean can really breathe.

"Thanks, man." Dean rolls over to his side and then to his feet. "You good, Sammy?"

Sam nods. He pushes up to his own feet. "Let's get out of here before the rest of those demons come back."

Dean takes a step after Sam and then finds himself turning back around. Cas isn't standing. The angel is breathing heavily, one hand on his knee and the other at his collarbone. "You okay, Cas?"

Cas jolts. "I'm fine."

"Right." But something is bothering Dean. Something about the way Cas is hunched, shoulders curled in, like he'd been the last time the brothers saw him, and Dean doesn't like it. "Well come on, man, let's get outta here."

Cas isn't moving. "Right." The angel says, and now Sam is staring at him as intently as Dean is.

"Like...now."

"I understand."

But he still isn't moving.

"You need a hand?" Dean is striding forward, hand brushing the angel's coat, and Cas jerks upright and away, curled in on himself even more, hands up as though to ward him off, his eyes downcast. "Thank you, no."

Dean frowns. "You sure you're alright, man?"

"Yes, Dean."

So Dean steps away, palms up, "Okay. Come on."

He steps toward the door of the warehouse with Sam and is relieved when Cas followed. He can't shake the feeling of wrongness though.

* * *

Uriel is with Cas the next time he appears. He's creeping into the smaller angel's space. Looming like a shadow that Cas is shrinking under.

Dean slips between them, shouldering Cas closer to Sam. Sam actually reaches out and snatches Cas by the coat sleeve, tugging him over toward the table. "Castiel, I have some…"

Dean is staring down Uriel. "What do you want?"

"I've been promoted."

"Well yippee-kai-yay for you."

Uriel glares. "Castiel is no longer in charge. You will contact me with any future concerns."

"So you _weren't_ promoted. Cas was demoted. You just happened to be next to him when it happened."

Uriel glares. His face is probably stuck like that. The angel's eyes slide past Dean's shoulder and narrow.

Dean raises an eyebrow. "So was that it?"

"Castiel has been reassigned."

"To what?"

"Re-education."

* * *

They don't see Cas for two weeks. When he reappears he's… subdued.

"Dean."

There's no hello. Dean wilts. "Hey, Cas. I was starting to wonder about you."

Cas just stares at him. He's heavier than usual.

"Finally got away from re-education, huh?"

"They finished," he says, and fiddles with the cuffs on his coat. "I'm being placed with another division."

"Okay."

"Pray if you need me."

* * *

"Castiel."

The angel is there in a furl of wings, blade in hand. He squints when he can't find an immediate danger, turning full circle. He turns the squint to the Winchesters.

"Hey man."

"Why did you call me?"

Sam erases the distance between them. "We wanted to see how you were doing. Make sure you're okay."

Dean's standing right beside them. "Figured we could hang for a while."

"I said pray if you need me." Castiel's face is wrinkled.

"We did. We needed to see you."

The angel blade disappears. Cas closes his eyes. "You needed to see me."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because we like you, man. You're one of us."

Cas's face has softened. "I suppose I can be away for a short time before they notice my absence. I would like to… 'hang'."

Sam's grin matches Dean's. "Awesome."

Cas comes whenever he can. He's quieter, though, than he used to be. He's careful to maintain a little distance. Dean can't help but notice how far away he seems after a year of not grasping the concept of personal space.

He's gained a flinch too.

Anything close to his eye or towards his eye and he flinches. Anytime anything touches him without warning he flinches. It's less of a flinch and more of a wrench, actually. He slams into the nearest surface—a table, a chair, a wall, a bookcase. Once he slammed into Dean only to curl up and sob—just one sob, hands shielding his face. Dean died a little.

They're careful not to startle him. Careful to make sure he knows he's welcome.

* * *

Cas doesn't scream when the other angels do. He cowers. Curls. Like a child waiting for the hits to come. Silent and still and braced.

Dean's heart drops.

When nothing touches Cas, he moves his arms from where they're shielding his head. He meets Dean's eyes, and Dean can see the fear that makes the angel follow his every movement.

He's careful to broadcast everything before he does it, hands up, stepping closer to Castiel.

The other angels have stopped screaming. The knight of hell has vanished in a puff of smoke. Half the angels went with him.

Cas watches Dean's hands. His feet. The angel is tilting backwards into the wall in what almost looks like slow-motion. Moving like that draws less attention, it seems, because none of the other angels appear to notice Cas at all.

Dean's close enough to reach out and touch him. He doesn't. He crouches down, though. Puts himself at Cas's eye level. "You hit, Cas?"

The angel shakes his head. His eyes flick past Dean's shoulder, searching. "Sam…"

"He's fine. I tackled him out of the way of the...projectiles...whatever they were."

"Celestial steel."

Dean nods. He holds out a hand to help Cas up. Cas looks at it like it's a snake about to bite and stands stiffly without taking it. Dean rises and backs away a little to give him space. "Right. You sure you're okay?"

"Yes."

Dean nods and turns, headed towards Sam.

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean can't help but feel like he's failed him.

* * *

"Cas. I'm worried about you. How would you feel about—"

The angel is already turning. Fury on his face. "You're _worried_ about me?! I am an angel, Dean. A warrior of God with eons of experience and you don't think I can _succeed_? You treat me like an ignorant child but I've been fighting this battle longer than you could imagine. You should show me some respect."

Dean stops thinking of him as an abused child and starts thinking of him as a prisoner of war. A captive. A soldier who's given up hope for escape and feels he has to live with the abuse thrown at him. He was betrayed, of course, because it's his own family who imprisoned him and—it doesn't help.


	3. Chapter 3

It's small at first. The angel is too stiff—sore, maybe. Then he's favoring his side. His leg. His ribs. His shoulder. More and more often, more and more injured.

Fingers bruised like they'd been broken. Shoulders rolling and legs stumbling when he lands, stumbling and swaying and a grimace on his normally blank face. He starts to sit carefully erect, back not touching the seat, a hand hovering over his abdomen, wrist carefully still. Sam worries.

Cas always looks so happy to see them. Tension falls from his shoulders. His lips twitch up. His face lifts. "Hello, Sam." Sam can't help the warmth that spreads through him every time. "Hey, Cas."

But the angel starts to struggle with it. Sam can see him trying, his mouth curving up, but his eyes are curled in pain or fear or both and Sam feels cold. "You okay, Cas?"

The angel doesn't nod. It pains him somehow. The movement pulls on his shoulders and he always goes still with a sharp inhale the moment he moves his head. "Yes, Sam. Are you and Dean alright?"

Cas is favoring his leg today. And there are bruises coating his throat, peeking up from the edge of the trenchcoat collar. Cas has turned the collar up, probably hoping to hide them. He walks stiffly over to the counter from where he landed in the middle of the room, arm glued to his side. He stumbles over to it, actually, his hurt leg stiff and unsteady and he's not bending it at all.

Sam's shoulders fall. "Cas," he says, "Are you okay?"

The angel goes to tilt his head and he freezes, his eyes closing as his face twists. He opens them quickly, but his features are still pinched. "Of course." He sits on a stool, left leg hovering.

"Cas," says Sam, and he walks up to stand beside him. He goes more direct. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"I…" Cas's throat jumps a little. "Demon fight," he says.

"I thought," Sam sits beside him, "that you were only working on us right now—on getting Dean to say yes or rallying us to fight on the angel's side. You said you weren't working anything else. So where'd the demons come from?"

"Sam," says Cas, and his curled face has fallen, "Don't ask me that." They've had this conversation before. That line is new.

"Cas…?"

Cas bends forward—bends so far he rests his forehead on his arm atop the table. "I don't wanna lie," he whispers, "So don't ask me."

A sigh rolls over Sam. "Cas," he rests his hand on the angel's shoulder, but Cas flinches so he moves it to the nape of his neck instead, brushing over the bruises. "Someone strangle you?"

"I am not dead."

More direct. "Did someone put their hands on your throat and squeeze?" Sam can't keep the anger from his voice. Anger that someone would do this to Cas—kind and forgiving and—his friend. Someone hurt his friend. Is hurting his friend and Sam feels helpless.

Cas doesn't respond but Sam knows the answer. He tries again. "Your shoulder hurt?"

Cas doesn't hesitate. Barely reacts. "No."

Sam moves his hand to ghost back over it and Cas flinches again. "That doesn't hurt?"

Cas is mumbling his responses into the table. It's unsettling. "It is not my shoulder."

Sam frowns. "What do you mean it's not your shoulder?"

"I mean," says Cas, and he sits up, "That it is not my shoulder that hurts when you do that."

"What does?"

Cas shakes his head—starts to anyway, before the pain flashes across his face. "What does what?" his voice is strained.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You're being difficult on purpose. Stop it. What hurts when I touch your shoulder?"

Cas sighs. He closes his eyes, looking haggard and shadowed and heavy and Sam is drowning in sorrow. "My wing," Cas whispers.

Sam stills. His eyes flick to Cas's back, like he can see the wings if he looks hard enough. Oh no. "Is it bad?"

Cas shrugs. Tries to. He stops the moment his shoulders start to inch up, grimacing.

"Stop that," says Sam, "Just…" his hands twitch toward him, hovering because he doesn't know where to touch. "What happened to it?"

Cas turns to look at him. Turns his whole torso because it hurts him to just move his head. "Sam," he says, voice soft, "I can't."

So Sam worries even more. Every time he sees Cas, the angel has his shoulders hunched up, his neck immobile. He stops trying to shake or nod his head—stops forgetting that it hurts because it always hurts. He's always hurting.

* * *

"Cas." It's Dean this time, beating Sam to the punch, "You're not okay."

"Shut up," says Cas, a bite to his voice. His fists are clenched.

Sam is taken aback. Cas is always calm and kind and careful. The Winchesters are shocked into silence.

"Shut up." The angel says again, his voice strained. He's choking up, his eyes brimming. "I know."

"So don't tell us you are," says Sam, "We can help."

It takes a lot of convincing. A lot of talking. Cas won't tell them how he's getting injured. But he starts to tell them when he is—he always is. He starts to let them help. Let them treat him. Bind broken ribs and set dislocated shoulders, wrap bleeding fingers and stitch wounds in his skin. He always has new injuries.

And always hesitates to tell them. That's how Sam knows he's hurt, actually, is when Cas stands still and careful where he lands, his eyes on the floor, his hands twitching. His voice will shake. No matter what he says—even if he talks about what's going on in heaven first—and Sam can't help but wonder if he's afraid to tell them. Afraid _of_ them. But then his throat will bob and he'll slowly pull his head up. He'll say where he's hurt. And only the where. Nothing else. "My back," he'll say, or "Wrist" or "Left calf" or "Wing." It takes them so long to get him to reveal his wings. To let them treat the appendages.

Cas doesn't like to have anyone at his back. Especially when his wings are manifested. It freaks him out. He jerks when they touch him—when anything touches him; a needle, a towel, a gauze pad, a hand—the muscles twitch. And he's trying so damn hard not to freak out. Trying to hold himself in place so they can help him, but with the wings it's almost impossible. They have to treat them in front of a mirror, so Cas can see everything they're doing. Being able to watch and knowing he can stop them… it helps.

And sometimes it's too much, and they do stop. He'll jerk around, face twisted in panic and terror and they'll stop. Or he'll ask, voice strained and breaking just a little on the word, "Stop." And they will. They'll back away and he'll settle. Sometimes, he's so panicked that he'll un-manifest his wings. Once, he zapped himself to the other side of the room, curling into the wall, his back against it and his chest towards them, his hands shaking.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "I'm sorry." And he didn't stop. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Sam slid down the opposite wall with Dean, so Cas could settle and calm and feel safe again. His throat was too tight to speak.

And Cas slowly started to relax. "I can't," he'd said. "I can't today."

The today had been new. And wonderful. "Okay, Cas."

* * *

"Isn't that right, Castiel?" Uriel slaps Cas on the back and Cas stiffens—freezes—eyes pinched with pain.

Sam fists his hands, gritting his teeth to keep hold of himself. They just treated his back for burns. Bad ones. He wonders if Uriel knows. Wonders if that's why the dark angel is smirking like that.

Uriel does it again, and his smile widens at the way Cas curls—his shoulder and his face and his fingers, everything screaming hurt. And Uriel laughs. Sam's worry turns abruptly into horror.

It's the angels. Hurting Cas. The brothers and sisters that he's surrounded by all day every day because Muriel and Phoebiel are grinning and laughing in the background, Uriel towering over Cas. He slaps Cas again; the back of his shoulder, still talking but Sam has no idea what he's saying. All he knows is Cas, his leg shaking to hold him up, his whole body hunching small, and he just takes the hit. The other angel can probably reach his wings. And Sam can hear Cas's breath stutter when he hits him again. Why the fuck is Uriel still hitting him?

Sam shifts, steely eyes latching onto Uriel and his feet moving before he tells them to. His arm is winding back for a punch. Cas moves to block and Sam slams to a halt, hand jerking back before it can make contact. "Cas." There's so much in that one word. Concern. Horror. Anger. I know it's them. Him. Let me hit him.

Cas is straightening. Playing a part. "It's Castiel," he says, and Sam's head won't stop shaking.

* * *

"It's the angels." His voice is low. Soft.

"What is?"

"Cas."

"Cas is an angel?" Dean sounds like he's worried Sam's lost his mind.

Sam doesn't have the patience for it. "Hurting him," he snaps.

"What?"

Sam's eyes burn. He can't breathe. "It's the angels."

It takes Dean a moment to put it all together. And then his face twists. "Shit," he says, the word sharp and soft and slow. He drops down beside Sam, arms on his knees, face in his hands. "Ah, shit." He looks up, "You talk to him?"

"Cas doesn't talk. He's in heaven. Right now. He's probably… They're probably…"

Dean sighs, his form withering. "Do they know he's helping us? Is that why?"

Sam shakes his head. "I don't know. He wouldn't go back if they knew… would he?"

* * *

A smear of darkness is clinging to Castiel's coat sleeve. Too unchanging to be a shadow. "Cas…"

The angel turns. In the light the smear is red.

"Cas, are you bleeding?"

Sam turns his head to look.

Castiel shifts his arm and hides the mark against his side, but not before Dean sees the matching smear of dark on his coat at the bottom of the ribcage.

"Cas?"

The angel shakes his head, just once. A warning to drop it.

Dean narrows his eyes. "It's not your blood?"

Cas pulls his arm in closer, shoulders hunching. "It doesn't matter."

Dean rubs a line down his face. If he's not denying it then he's definitely hurt. "Shit." And why the hell wouldn't that matter? "Shit. Why? It's not bad? Because if you're not healing, then it's gotta be pretty damn bad."

"I am healing."

"Cas…"

The angel won't even look at him. Dean meets Sam's eyes. Sam nods, face grim. Dean turns back to Cas. "Cas I don't think you have to do this anymore. We've learned all we can. Just stay, Cas. Stay here with us. We're better as a team."

"I can't."

Sam stands up. Walks over to Cas and sits beside him. "Look at me, Cas." When the angel doesn't move, Sam reaches out to clasp his arm. "You matter to us, Cas. You being hurt matters."

Dean comes to his other side. "The angels aren't your brothers and they don't deserve you. They treat you like crap and we can't stand to watch it anymore. Just stay here this time. You don't have to go back to heaven. You don't have to listen to those dicks or take their punishments, okay? Stay."

Cas is pushing away from them. He finds the nearest surface and slumps down it, head in his hands, one arm still tucked against his chest. "You'd want me here?" It comes out so soft Dean's not sure how he heard it. He's crying.

Dean can't breathe. He tries to say 'yes' or 'of course' or _something_, but what comes out is not coherent.

"Cas," says Sam, "why wouldn't we?"


	4. Chapter 4

Cas has been falling. Slowly. Cut off from heaven.

It's a djinn. A fear djinn, and Cas leaps in front of Dean and it injects him instead.

Sam and Dean take african dream root and go in after him when the cure doesn't work.

Cas is standing next to Uriel, Zachariah in front of them. "Re-education," Uriel says.

Zachariah turns to scrutinize Castiel. He nods.

The scene changes before the Winchesters can call out.

Cas is strapped to a table, a girl angel standing over him. She's holding a needle—a drill, really—and angling it towards his eye. Cas screams. His body jerks.

Dean pushes down whatever's trying to rise through his windpipe and shouts, "Cas! Cas, it's not real!"

He's running toward the table, Sam on his heels, when the scene changes again.

It's Uriel, standing over Cas, pounding into him curled on the floor, and Dean tackles the dark angel away.

"Cas," says Sam, kneeling beside the angel. "It's a djinn. This isn't real. You have to let go of your fear."

"Naomi," says Cas, "Naomi, stop this. Leave them out of it."

Uriel laughs. "Naomi's done with you today."

The scene changes again.

It's Zachariah now, and Cas is chained to the wall and the floor. Zachariah puts a hand on his head and Cas's face starts glowing blue. His head arches back.

"This was always one of my favorites," says Zachariah, "being autopsied alive. Do you not see the agony of humanity, Castiel? Do you not see that beneath their skin, they are nothing?"

"Cas!" Sam throws Zachariah back and Dean catches Cas when he tips forward. "Cas, look at me. You're not really here. It's a djinn dream. He's using your fear. Cas, look at me!"

Cas's head lolls upward. "Dean? Naomi… you're not here."

"No. No, I am, Cas. I am here with you. Your body is safe in the bunker. You're not in heaven. You're safe. I've got you, Cas. Let go of your fear."

The scene changes.

An autistic man's heaven. It takes only a moment to recognize it and something cold settles in Dean's stomach. Cas is on the hill, twenty feet out. Dean and Sam are running towards him, "Cas!"

Three forms appear behind Castiel. Smirking. Twirling blades. "This is pitiful, Castiel." One of the angels drifts away and Cas is turning to stop him, but the others hold him back. They're having trouble though. Until they stab him.

The other angel reaches a hand to the man's head and he writhes downward. The angel grabs the kite, yanks it down, and rips it to shreds while Cas protests.

Dean is already holding him, but he has eyes only for the kite and the man. "Cas. We're trying to rescue you. You have to help. Me and Sam are right here. You don't have to be scared."

The other angels are trying to get to Cas, but Sam is holding them back, anger in every movement.

"You live in the bunker with us. You haven't been to heaven for months, don't you remember? I'm real. Sam's real. The rest of this isn't. We're not gonna let anything happen to you. Look at me. You trust me?"

Cas's throat is jumping. He presses a hand to his side and it comes back with blood. He stares at it. "Not real?"

"None of it. Come back, Cas. Let go of your fear. These guys can't hurt you anymore. We won't let them."

Cas looks up at him.

"Please. We want you there."

Cas jolts a little. "You've never…" He looks over to Sam, fighting off the other angels, then back at Dean. "You promise?"

"Yes. One hundred percent. You don't have to be scared. We're here for you."

"Okay."

The scene fades.

* * *

The cut is too close to Cas's eye. Dean is holding the needle, going in to stitch it, and Cas is tense and hyperventilating, eyes wide, his arm coming up to push Dean's hand away. Dean pulls back.

Cas tilts backwards, but he's already pressed against the back of the couch, so he scoots sideways, away from Dean. "Give me a moment."

"Maybe it would help if you closed your eyes."

Cas nods. He's trying to slow his breathing.

"We could do this lying down, if that…"

Cas shakes his head frantically. "I wanna be up. Please."

"Yeah. It's your choice."

Cas touches the cut, almost like he's reminding himself that it's there. He slides back over and Dean lifts his hand a little, "You ready?"

Cas nods. "Could you, maybe, talk while you're… just so I know it's…"

"Sure thing."

Cas closes his eyes and Dean takes that as his sign to start. He reaches out a hand to steady the side of Cas's face. Cas flinches back a little, but quickly controls himself.

"You know," says Dean, raising the needle, "When we were little, there was this kid at school one year, told us all this story about falling off a bunk bed—" the needle goes through skin and Cas's eye and hand both twitch—"and hitting the corner of his cheek on a shelf. Had to go to the hospital to get stitches. But this kid just went on and on about how his kid brother didn't even care when he fell out. Just said 'at least you're not snoring' and rolled over, wasn't even phased in the slightest, didn't even get up. The kid that fell said he had to get up and go get his parents himself, blood gushin' like crazy. And they debated for five minutes about who was gonna take him to the hospital because neither one of 'em wanted to do it. Naturally, I didn't believe a single word…" Dean sticks on a bandage and pulls back, "You're all done, Cas."

Immediately, Cas is at the other end of the couch, taking deep breaths. "Thank you." He smiles weakly, touching the bandage on the side of his face, "The story helped."

* * *

Cas doesn't tell them when he gets hit. Dean's too afraid to ask why.

They have to ask directly, or check him themselves, because he'll hide it if he can. And you know he's hiding something when you hit the right question. He goes still. Stops breathing—only he can't just stop anymore because he's falling and he has to breathe, so he ends up taking weird staggered little breaths. His eyes flick down. Down to their hands, watching, waiting. And if you move at all, he jerks away.

He doesn't want to lie to them and doesn't want to tell them because he's scared of what they'll do, of how they'll react, of getting punished, of getting kicked out for not being good enough… Dean should really just ask why he doesn't tell them.

You have to repeat the question. Slow, careful, still, kind. If you're lucky or it's little, he'll nod.

They just got back from an angel fight and he's not nodding. Dean can't see blood or favored limbs, but he always has to ask, and "Are you bleeding?" was the right question because Cas locked up. When he asked again, Cas jerked back a little and didn't respond. So now Dean knows it's not some tiny cut or scratch or graze, and he has to hold back his panic and his need to hurry up and fix whatever it is, because that doesn't work with Cas.

"Cas," Dean tries a third time, "Are you bleeding?" He tries to put emotion in his voice—care, sympathy, love—and it's so damn hard because he's so used to holding it back.

Cas's eyes go watery. He chokes out an "I'm okay."

Dean ignores it. "That's not what I asked. I asked if you're hurt. I asked, 'Are you bleeding?'"

Cas wheezes a little. His eyes flick up to Dean's face and then back to his hands.

Dean is focusing so hard trying not to move them. "I'm thinkin' the answer's yes. You wanna tell me what hit you?"

Cas flinches, and yeah, okay, that was a poor choice of words.

"Blade?"

Cas shakes his head, "No."

Dean's grateful that no is so easy. That he can get the answer one way or another, even if he has to exclude every other possibility in the universe. "Bullet?"

Cas tenses even more. He holds his breath. And dammit, that's not good.

"Where?" Dean's an idiot if he thinks Cas is gonna answer that, so he has to physically restrain his surprise when Cas pulls open his trenchcoat and reveals a blood-soaked side.

Dean's hands twitch, he wants to reach out and put pressure on it and get the bullet out and patch him up, and can't yet—and of course, Cas sees the twitch and jerks backward. "You're safe, Cas, I swear to—I swear. Thank you. Thank you so much for showing me. Can I come closer?"

Cas doesn't respond right away. Dean's learned to wait. Ten breaths and then he nods, just once.

* * *

Sam takes a bad hit and Dean is panicking and Cas is useless. Fucking hellhounds. Dean is loading Sam into the car and he doesn't have the emotional wherewithal for a Cas check, because they take too fucking long and he's yelling even though Cas is making it hard to stay mad because he's so still and small and obedient. "Goddammit, Cas, I don't have time to play twenty questions! Just give me a straight fucking answer for once and tell me if you're hurt!"

Cas is in the back ministering ever so carefully to Sam. "My vessel is unharmed," he says, and Dean moves on.

It's not until they're back in the bunker, Sam's gut patched up, and Dean ready to conk out, that the guilt starts to slather itself on. He heads to Cas's room. Cas, who was so careful to be helpful and to anticipate everything Dean or Sam might need and avoiding them at the same time, so that they won't notice him or get angry—and Dean feels so awful for yelling at him like that. It's not his fault he's freakin' traumatized. And he saved Sam's life. Moved in and blocked the hellhound before it could go for the kill.

So now Dean is standing outside Cas's door and Cas wouldn't lie even though Dean was yelling at him so he's definitely not hurt. Dean knocks, hoping he's not waking him; Cas sleeps so poorly. "Cas?"

Nothing. So Dean moves on and leaves the apology for morning, when he's better equipped to handle it.

Morning comes and Dean is back outside Cas's room, knocking. "Cas?"

Cas doesn't answer, and Dean's sure the noise would have woken him. He tries again, and again the room is silent. Something cold is snaking along Dean's insides. Cas wouldn't lie, but fuck if he doesn't dodge questions and give half-answers and Dean racks his brain trying to remember exactly what he'd said in the car, still banging on the door. For the life of him he can't remember. Unharmed. He'd said unharmed. Still no response. Dean drops to his knees and picks the lock.

"Cas, you better fucking answer me!" He's woken Sam, Sam half-unconscious from drugs and blood loss, lying in a bed at the other end of the hallway behind a closed door, but the room in front of him is silent. "I don't know," Dean yells, trying to placate his brother, "I don't—" the lock clicks and Dean shoves the door open. Cas isn't there and Dean feels a flood of relief, and then worry, because Cas was scared and he thought Dean was mad at him and he never leaves his room unless it's to do something with one of them.

He gets up, pulls out his phone, calls Cas. When the ringing is right next to him he swears. If he left, Dean will never forgive himself. Dean starts searching the bunker.

Cas is… bad when he finds him. He's on the bottom floor, crammed into the back corner of a closet. The only reason Dean does find him is because he's banging his head against the wall, he's shaking so hard.

"Cas?" Dean lowers himself down to eye level, sitting on the floor, hands held out placatingly in front of him. It's a bad move.

Cas freaks, trying to curl smaller and shaking worse and now his breaths are short and sharp and he's sobbing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." A non-stop litany.

Cas doesn't talk when he gets scared. He goes silent, and this is putting Dean on edge because it's so wrong.

"I'm not mad at you, Cas. I shouldn't've yelled. I was just worried about Sam and I took it out on you, but you didn't do anything wrong. It's okay, I'm not mad, I'm not gonna do anything. You okay?"

Cas's face twists. His feet are skidding across the floor like he's trying to push back farther, but he's already up against the corner. The litany changes. "Please, please, please, please."

Something's wrong. "You okay, Cas?" Goddammit, he should've done the check yesterday. "What's wrong?"

Cas wheezes, his feet stopping, his upper torso lagging back. "Please, I'm so sorry. Please."

"What, Cas? What do you need?"

His chest hitches, head lolling into the wall, "Don't."

"Don't what? Cas, I'm not doing anything. I'm not mad, I'm not. We're all okay. What are you worried about?"

And Cas goes silent. But it's not his normal, tense, hyper-vigilant silent. It's sad and tired and—like he's given up, like he's just gonna sit there and take whatever Dean throws at him.

Dean is freaking out. "Cas, what's going on? You hurt? Drugged? Talk to me."

Cas's face pinches like he's in pain but he just sobs and turns his head away, curling his whole body into the wall.

"Let's do a check, huh? Let's… yeah, let's do that. One thing at a time, just tell me yes or no."

Dean is hoping Cas will react. He doesn't. "So, uh… Is anything broken?"

Cas's shoulders are shaking. He starts his litany again. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"No, no, no. Hey, Cas, you haven't done anything wrong or bad. I just—I wanna make sure you're okay and not hurt. Can you just tell me yes or no, is anything broken?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please…"

"Cas."

"It won—It won't happen again."

"What won't?"

Cas's breathing speeds up.

"Okay, okay, I believe you, I'm sorry. _I'm _sorry, Cas."

Cas jerks. "I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you. One hundred percent, I forgive you, it's forgotten. Are… Are you bleeding, Cas?" Maybe this is blood loss, or a fever. "Can you… Do you get sick? Are you sick? Cas?"

"It hurts," says Cas, and Dean lets out a breath, because it sucks, but an injury he can deal with.

"Where?"

Cas shakes his head.

"Can you tell me what hurts, Cas? So I can make it better?"

"You can't," says Cas.

Dean has to take a moment to compose himself. "Tell me anyway?"

Cas turns. Turns to look at him, his eyes, his hands, his posture. It's normal for him, and Dean feels some of his panic fade.

"My wing," Cas says.

Dean can't comprehend it. "What?"

Cas doesn't say it again. He hunches his shoulders in and burrows into the corner, eyes on Dean's hands.

"Did you say your wing hurts?" Cas stays silent. "Is that why… why you said I can't make it better? Because it's your wing? Is it… " Dean has no idea what he's dealing with here, but at least Cas seems normal now. "Because you're falling?"

But Cas shakes his head. His eyes flick up. "No," he says, and he never lies.

"Then what's wrong with it?"

Cas flicks back down to his hands. "It's okay."

"But it's hurt?"

Cas shrugs.

"Cas… Is it broken?"

"No."

"Is is bleeding?"

Cas goes still. His eyes water.

"When did it start bleeding? This morning?"

"No."

"Last night?"

Cas shrugs, careful and stiff and he curls in to rest his head on his knees.

"Sort of last night? You don't know?"

"I know," says Cas.

"Can you… tell me what happened to it?"

Cas hesitates. Hesitates and jerks a little and his eyes flick to the door—his escape route. Dean tilts to the side to make it more open, afraid Cas will freak out if he moves more than that. "Yesterday," says Cas, dodging the question, "While we were out."

"While we were…" Dean closes his eyes, because he really hopes this isn't what he thinks. He opens them again. "Hellhounds got it?"

Cas doesn't say no. His breathing stutters just a little.

That's not good. That's really not good. "Could it kill you?"

"No. It's not… bad."

"But…?"

"Hellhound saliva is…" Cas gets bogged down by the next word and doesn't say it.

Fatal? He'd said no. Dangerous? Painful? "Is what, Cas?"

"It doesn't matter," he says, and burrows smaller. "I'm not an angel anymore."

"If you got wings, Cas, then you're an angel."

Cas meets his eyes. Longer than Dean is used to. It makes him want to fidget, but he doesn't wanna scare Cas.

"It's poisonous to angels."

Dean was unprepared for that. Not gonna die, he said he wasn't gonna die and Cas always tells them the truth. "And one of them bit your wing?"

"It's… I don't feel good." He says the words fast, and then braces, like he's worried Dean will be mad at the admission.

He's scared is what it is. That Cas tells him straight up like that. His eye could be falling out of its socket, he wouldn't tell them. Dean worries about dying again. "Okay, thank you. I… How can I help? What do you need?"

"I'm cold."

Fucking scary. "Blankets upstairs. You wanna… move this to your room?"

"No," says Cas. "No, I'm okay."

"So the saliva is poisonous, what does that mean, exactly? For you?"

"Forget it," Cas is shaking or shivering or something, "Tend to Sam."

"Come on, Cas. You're gonna… you're sick or something?"

"Sure."

"Don't do that. Just tell me."

"I'm okay, really. It'll work its way out of my system. I don't know why I…" He's not looking at Dean at all anymore. "I'm okay."

"You're always okay, Cas. Do you feel… you feel cold? Maybe… is that a fever? You got a fever?"

"Just leave me."

"What? Cas, I'm not gonna leave. What—are you moping? You must really feel like crap."

Cas doesn't respond.

Dean sighs. "Can I come closer?"

"Sure."

Dean scoots forward across the floor, slow and with as little movement as possible. He breaks the doorway of the closet and he's blocking Cas's exit now, but clearly Cas doesn't wanna leave, so hopefully he won't freak out. "I'm just gonna touch your forehead, okay? To check for a fever."

Cas reels back. "I'm okay."

He's definitely shivering. "Course you are. I just wanna check. Or I could find a thermometer, but that would take longer, and I'm sure you'd rather just get it over with."

Cas nods minutely. "Yeah."

Dean lifts his hand when it's by the side of Cas's face and not right in front of it, then shifts to feel his forehead. It's hot. Burning. He retracts his hand. "Okay, that's a fever." A really, really high one. "You know I really think you'd be more comfortable in your room, Cas."

"I don't wanna move."

"Blankets up there."

Cas won't meet his eyes anymore.

Dean shifts minutely-away from Cas, actually-and Cas wrenches backward, head slamming into the wall with a hideous crack. Dean has to stop himself from checking his friend over. Has to hold himself carefully still.

Cas's face curls into a grimace. He tilts away from the wall. Towards Dean.

"I really think you'd be more comfortable in your room."

Cas nods. He grimaces. And then he scoots past Dean, hands shaking.

"Your head okay?"

Cas bunches his shoulders up and shies away from Dean.

"Is it bleeding?"

Cas's trembling hand pulls up, touches the back of his head. His fingers come back clean. "I'm sorry," he says.

"I forgive you. You wanna go to your room?"

"I... " Cas's throat bobs. He curls in on himself as he ghosts across the room.

Dean waits. Waits and doesn't move and Cas stops at the doorway.

"I'm scared," Cas says, his voice barely there. "I can't… everything's…" His voice shakes, breaths hitching. "I don't… wanna be alone."

Dean is terrified. He doesn't know what to do. His brain clicks onto autopilot. "Okay. Sam's room?"

And then Cas falls to the floor and starts crying.

Dean freezes. "Cas?"

"Dean," Cas sobs, "I don't feel right."

"Okay. We'll get you fixed up, Cas, don't worry." Dean is worrying. Maybe Cas doesn't realize that he's gonna die. "You know anything about hellhound saliva?"

"It hurts."

"Okay. Sam's room. Let's go. You need help?"

Cas shakes his head.

Dean stands ever so carefully. "Okay. Go ahead, I'm right behind you. Well, like ten feet because… you know."

Cas nods. "That's good." He stands. Staggers out the door and down the hall with Dean trailing along behind him. Cas is off-balance. Tilting into walls, legs wobbly, arms shaking.

"You sure you don't need help?"

"I'm sure."

Cas draws to a halt outside Sam's door—falls into the wall, actually.

Dean keeps coming. "Okay, Cas," he soothes. He opens the door. "Come on."

Cas goes in. Stops after a few feet like he doesn't know where he's supposed to go.

Dean reaches out, "Okay, Cas." He sets a careful hand on Cas's shoulder and pulls him toward the cot-set up so Dean could keep an eye on Sam.

Sam is staring, pushing up onto his elbows with concern and pain pinching his eyes. "Cas, you okay? Dean?"

"He'll be okay." Please, god, let him be okay. Dean pushes Cas onto the cot and Cas sits slowly. "There we are. Sam's room. I'll go grab a few more blankets. Just stay here a second. Maybe take your coat off so you can manifest your wings?"

Cas twitches back and shakes his head. "No, thank you," he says quickly.

"Okay," Dean soothes. "Just one second." Dean walks back across the room, scanning Sam as he does, "You doin' okay? Hungry? Cold? Thirsty? Need more pain meds?"

Sam is staring at Cas. The Winchester is flat on his back again, head raised by the pillows. "I'm okay," he murmurs, brushing Dean off. "Get those blankets, he's shivering."

So Dean slips out and races down the hall. God, let them be okay.


	5. Chapter 5

The hellhound venom doesn't wear off right away. Might not wear off for a while. Dean doesn't have the heart to leave Cas and Sam alone while he looks into it. He believes Cas. If Cas says it'll work its way through his system, then it'll work its way through his system.

Dean pulls a second cot into the room and settles down for what's bound to be a long night. He's expecting restlessness and hyper-vigilance and a bone-tired Sam. He's not expecting the crying.

"Cas?" Dean gets off the cot.

Cas's shoulders are shuddering. He's curled on the cot, facing the wall. It's wrong. Cas always has to face the room. Always. But he rolled over at some point and Dean hadn't thought anything of it. He thinking something of it now.

"What do hugs feel like?" Cas whispers the words into the room, shadowy and faint and wet.

Dean is taken aback, doesn't know what to say. "Warm," he finally manages, throat thick. "Uh… hugs are warm."

* * *

Cas doesn't sleep alone after that. Hates sleeping alone. Doesn't sleep if he's alone.

They all sleep in the same room. It's not like any of them have people coming over.

Dean finds that he loves it.

* * *

"No, no, no," Sam is saying, "You have to ask if he _should_, not if he _can_. Otherwise he'll say 'yes' every time. Learned that when he flew us to the bunker with a broken wing, the bastard."

"Cas," says Dean, soft and slow and he's learning patience, he is. Sort of. "Should you?"

Cas sighs. "No," he begrudges.

"Then next time, say that when I ask if you can."

Sam shakes his head, mumbling, "he won't."

"But I could, if necessary."

* * *

Ketch is a bastard. Creeping into Cas's space, waving the torch in his face, shoving past his shoulder and stopping suddenly as they head deeper into the warehouse. Finally, Cas shoves him back, hard. Ketch stumbles and falls. "Back off," spits Cas. Sam and Dean turn to look. Mick pulls Ketch to his feet.

"That was rather uncalled for, wasn't it?"

Cas growls. He breaks forward, but Sam grabs his shoulder and holds him back, "How 'bout you walk up front for a while, Cas."

"He's doing it on purpose."

Sam leads him past Dean. "I know he is. He's an asshole. Let's just walk up here."

Ketch moves to trail after them, but Dean blocks. "Leave Cas alone."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah," says Dean, ripping the torch from his hand, "you did." He turns to walk after Sam and Cas, Ketch and Mick following behind him.

Ketch reaches for the torch. "Hey, I need that."

"Should've thought about that before you lost your privileges for tormenting Cas."

"You'll ruin it. You have to constantly feed it holy oil using the—"

Dean stops and Ketch runs into his back. He turns, face dark. "This is holy fire?"

"I assumed the halo told you. Of course it's—"

Dean throws the torch on the ground and stomps it out.

Ketch looks aghast. "You're a neanderthal. That's positively primitive. You just lost us a valuable weapon against angels."

Dean grabs the collar of his shirt and yanks him forward. Sam and Cas have stopped somewhere up ahead. "You bring holy fire near Cas again, I'll kill you." His grip tightens, face hardening, "And you were waving it in his face."

"Dean." Cas puts a hand on the hunter's shoulder. "If I didn't think I could handle it, I would've said. Sam's right. He's an… asshole." Cas stumbles over the word a little. "Let's keep going."

Dean releases Ketch's shirt. "You don't come near him." He turns, grabbing Cas's arm to pull him forward. "You should've said something. At the very least, you could've shoved him sooner."

"I can handle Ketch."

* * *

Cas is staring intently ahead, frowning at the large door in the dimly lit room. "Eleven," he says, and Sam turns to give him a startled look.

"Just demons?"

Cas nods. "Yes."

Dean hefts his gun a little higher, "How big is the room?"

An obnoxious British accent accompanies the answer. "Roughly the size of your library."

Cas nods in confirmation to Dean.

Sam frowns at Ketch. "How did you find this?"

Ketch shrugs, "We have our methods." He pulls open his jacket and reaches into an inside pocket, pulling out a thin, flat piece of wood no larger than his palm.

Dean watches as Cas turns, eyebrows pinched together.

Ketch rotates the wood and Dean catches a flash of engraved shapes.

Cas jolts backwards, stumbling into Sam, who catches him with a hand on either shoulder. "Cas?"

Cas's gaze never moves from the sigiled piece of wood. He's tilting back, but Sam's a solid block behind him.

Ketch is smirking knowingly.

Cas straightens and glares. "Why do you have that?"

Ketch raises his eyebrows, shifting the wood into his right hand and closer to Castiel, who flinches.

Dean finds himself sliding surreptitiously closer, ready to interfere.

Ketch twirls the wood. "It has the propensity to weaken demons." The British bastard flicks a grin at Castiel. "Doesn't affect humans, of course, and we haven't had the opportunity to test it on angels, but from your guttural reaction, I'm guessing the effects are… unpleasant."

Sam's hands tighten on Cas's shoulders.

Dean doesn't remember telling his feet to move. He's jerking forward, gun twitching in his hand, fear shooting down his spine, "So put it away!"

Sam's head shakes beside Dean. "We can't use that."

Ketch lifts the wood. "On the contrary, Samuel. This isn't your typical spell-work. It only affects creatures who come into direct contact with it. I'll admit it's a hassle to get close enough to use, but the effects are instantaneous. Makes demons drop like broken marionettes. Fascinating, really." Ketch shifts closer to Cas, his arm swinging to pull the wood right past his face. "I do wonder how it affects angels."

Cas jerks his head back and meets with Sam's chest—Sam is careening backward, pulling Cas with him and out of reach of Ketch while Dean jolts forward, arm splaying out protectively in front of his angel. Cas is _his_ angel. His and Sam's and no one else's and Ketch can't touch him. Ketch won't touch him.

* * *

Cas is falling. But he's still an angel. Still partly an angel. Mostly an angel. If he has wings, then he's an angel, right? Right.

* * *

Dean is relieved for a split second when the demons start choking for breath and dropping, black vapor curling from their mouths. And then he hears wheezing from his other side and turns and the relief spins into panic.

Cas is clutching at his chest, his face twisted, his breaths wheezing, his legs wobbling beneath him. He falls to his knees as Dean races forward, "Cas!" He grabs the angel's shoulders but a moment later, all he can do is support his way to the ground as he starts seizing. "No, no, no, no."

Cas's eyes and mouth are tinged with blue, glowing brighter and brighter. Dean covers them. "Stay in! Stay with me, Cas!"

Cas chokes and seizes but the glowing doesn't grow brighter. In fact it starts to fade and Cas's shaking becomes weaker. Dean thinks he might be dying.

"Yes!" he screams, "Yes, Cas. Yes! I give you permission. Come on! Use me! Use _me_!"

Cas grips Dean's sleeve as best he can, his head spasming to the side.

"Please, Cas."

A moment later the blue glows brighter and then it's rushing from Cas's face and into Dean's.

Dean falls backwards, overwhelmed for a moment by the force of it. The glow stops.

Sam is crouching beside him, clutching his arm, "You got him?"

Dean nods, his breaths shaking. His head thunks backwards. "I got him. I got him."

"Thank god." Sam spins on his heel and shoots at Ketch, grazing his hand. Ketch shouts and drops the sigil he'd activated.

"Ugh." Dean rolls onto his side, "He's hurt. I think staying like that tore his wings. Tore his grace." He tries to push up and slumps back down, "Ugh. He's really hurt."

* * *

Cas isn't healing. He's back in his vessel, pale and still and dead to the world. It's wrong.

They don't have any other options. Nothing Dean takes as an option. So Sam prays.

They don't know the name of the angel who appears in a flash of light, wings large and full behind him. Shadows of wings.

"It's a loophole. I can send him back in time. Again, because his mind…this is not the Castiel I know. He's from a world that no longer exists. But if I do, things will change. Your past will change. This version of you will not exist."

"But he'll be alive?"

"Yes, he'll be alive."

That's all Dean needs. "Do it." Dean's not entirely sure if it's him or Sam who says it. Maybe both together. "Do it."

It starts all over again.


	6. Chapter 6

It starts out small. The feeling of being watched, hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickling upright. The feeling doesn't dissipate. It lingers. Grows. "Sam."

His brother looks up, eyes expectant.

"You feel that?" Dean looks around again. It's his tenth time and, like all the other times, nothing stands out. "Like someone's watching us."

Sam frowns. "Yeah, actually. Thought maybe it was those girls over there, but now I'm not so sure."

Dean nods. He pushes back his plate and stands, hand brushing over his holster to reassure himself it's there. "Let's go."

They leave. The feeling of being watched follows them back to the motel. It sets Dean on edge, and he's checking the windows every three minutes, trying to find the source. He can't. So he goes outside and scouts around, and the feeling follows as a chill on the back of his neck. By the time he gets back, he's wound so tightly, he's fighting the urge to kill everything he sees. "Grab your stuff," he tells Sam, "We're leaving."

Sam takes one look at him and doesn't argue. "Where we goin'?"

"Away from here."

They get caught on the edge of town. A pack of demons. Too many. But they fight back, backs against the concrete of a warehouse wall, firing at everything in sight. Demons go down in flashes of yellow lightning all around them, right up until Dean's gun clicks—he's out of ammo. Sam has the demon knife, and he shoves it into Dean's hand. Dean crouches a little, bracing for the first demon to reach him.

A flash of tan and black crosses between them and the demon falls in a glare of white light. It's a humanoid form—a man—dancing through the demons, something small and silver glinting in his pale hand. He spins and demons fall, and then, half a breath after Sam's gun clicks empty, something silver is tossed up in the air to land before Sam's feet. It's a strange sort of dagger. Sam picks it up.

The man twirls through three more demons and then runs away and Dean never catches a glimpse of his face. Just the build and color of trenchcoat, slacks, and dress shoes.

Armed with the demon knife and the strange dagger, Sam and Dean make quick work of the few remaining demons.

Dean turns as he drives away, "What was that?"

Sam shakes his head, tilting the blade in his hand, squinting at it. "I have no idea."

* * *

The man appears all the time, helping them, fighting with them, and then running off. Dean and Sam take to calling him Trenchcoat.

He's supernatural, Dean knows. Learns. When Sam takes a bad hit and goes down and his head is gushing blood. Trenchcoat is just suddenly there, and before Dean can think to shove him away he's touched a hand to Sam's head and the blood is gone.

He saved Sam's life. He's saved both their lives too many times to count. Dean figures the least he can do is give this guy the benefit of the doubt. Maybe not all monsters are monstrous.

* * *

Dean's bracing for the hit, hands coming up in a last ditch effort to block. But then Trenchcoat slides between them, blade gleaming before it's blocked from Dean's sight by a wall of tan and a top of dark hair. The demon falls with a scream and a burst of light. Trenchcoat doesn't move. A heartbeat passes. Two. Three. Five. He's never been so close to Dean for so long.

He's just standing there, back to Dean, arms at his sides, bloody blade in one hand. Just stands there and breathes. And then he jolts a few steps—one forward and the rest to the side. He's leaving, probably, like he always does once all the monsters are down.

But then Trenchcoat stumbles. His hand comes up toward his side—Dean can see the movement even from behind—and his next step falls. He drops to one knee, his left hand on the ground and his right at his side. His blade drops with a clatter.

Dean takes a step toward him, "You okay, man?" Sam's moved to stand beside Dean.

Trenchcoat staggers upright, picking his blade back up. It disappears into his sleeve. He takes a few more steps—slower than usual. He usually just bolts, but now he's walking carefully away, steps small and not half-as-graceful as they should be.

"Trenchcoat guy?"

He falls back to his knees, this time with one hand against the wall and Dean and Sam both break forward, Dean coming around to his front and Sam to his side. "Hey, man, what's wrong?"

Trenchcoat pulls his hand from the wall and uses it to pull his coat closed before Dean can get a good look at the dark depths beneath. The man's face is pinched in pain, his breathing deep and deliberate. "Nothing," he says, voice as gritty as always, "I'm fine." He's clutching one hand to his side and it's buried beneath the folds of his tan coat.

Dean moves his arm forward, gripping the edge of the fabric and shifting to pull it open. Trenchcoat falls back before he can—jolts back—closing it even more. But it's weird, because he's leaving space between his side and the coat, like his hand inside the trenchcoat is holding something that's preventing him from pulling it closed tighter. He tries to get to his feet again, this time without the use of his hands, propping his shoulder against the wall and moving upward in small shoves. Blood drips down from somewhere beneath his coat, dotting the pavement between his feet.

Sam and Dean are hovering, Sam towering over the guy, "You're hurt." It's just on the verge of being a question. Like Sam's not sure it's possible for this guy to be hurt.

"No. I'm fine." He doesn't move though. Doesn't race away to wherever it is he races off to. Just stands there, curled awkwardly, propping himself against the wall.

"Let me see," says Dean, starting forward with his hand up to try and pull the coat open again.

Trenchcoat blocks with his uncovered hand. "It's nothing. I'm not hurt. The blood's not mine." He's widening his eyes trying to be convincing, but his hand is shaking where it's holding Dean's wrist, and lines of pain are still written all over his face and body.

Dean snorts. "You're a rotten liar." He wrests his hand from the man's grip and comes toward him with both hands, fingers splayed—reaching. The man grabs one of his wrists and then Dean is at the opening of the coat with his other one, curling his fingers around it.

Trenchcoat's buried hand flashes out and stops him. The movement makes him sway. His hand is wet with blood and he's smearing it across Dean's palm and wrist. The hold is loose—really loose—like he's being careful not to bruise or inflict pain or make Dean feel trapped.

Dean raises an eyebrow at the red coating their hands. "Not hurt, huh?"

Sam frowns. "You can't heal yourself?"

"I'm fine. You should both return to the motel. Law enforcement could arrive at any moment."

Dean is pulling from his loose grip, "We're in the middle of nowhere, dude. No one's coming."

"Demon reinforcements might be."

Dean shrugs it off. "So we'll patch you up at the motel." He reaches forward again. Trenchcoat shies away. Jerks away. He shoves Dean and runs off—staggers off.

Dean finds his feet but the man is gone. He turns to Sam. "What the hell are you doing letting him go?"

Sam frowns, staring off to where Trenchcoat disappeared. "I don't know. Just… he seemed scared. Of us, and I didn't, I… I don't know."

* * *

"You need to leave."

Dean startles to his feet at the sudden voice, "What the—"

It's Trenchcoat, leaning against the window frame, peering out.

"What?" says Sam, just as startled, "How did you get in here?"

Trenchcoat turns his head to look at them. "I flew."

"We have wards up," says Dean.

"Not for my kind."

"What? You're like a ghost flying through walls?"

"You're not listening," he says. "None of that matters. You have to leave. Now. Both of you."

"Why?"

"There's a battalion of demons headed your way. You have less than an hour."

That gets them moving. They start cramming things into their duffels, running around the room gathering items. "Why are they after us?"

Trenchcoat watches from his position at the window. "They mean to use you."

* * *

His hand keeps inching up toward his side and then falling back down. He's breathing deeper than normal, and Dean hasn't seen him move all day. He's flown sure, but he hasn't moved his feet. Hasn't been standing anywhere unless it's leaned up against something—the window, the car, the wall. And Dean has a sneaking suspicion as to why.

He narrows his eyes. "Trenchcoat, walk towards me."

"Why?"

"Just do it." Dean waves his hand to gesture him forward.

He glares. "No."

"Come on."

"Why?" He grits out the word.

"I want to see if you can."

Trenchcoat bristles. Straightens. "Of course I can."

Dean lifts his eyebrows. "So do it."

He grinds his jaw. Stares at the distance between them like it's an uncrossable trench. He lifts his chin. "I do not have anything to prove, and you do not command me. I am content to stay over here."

"If you don't wanna walk, then how 'bout you fly over here? Unless you can't."

"I can."

Dean huffs. "Still a rotten liar."

"I can," he grits out, the word forceful.

Dean laughs. "I don't think you can."

"I have been flying all day."

"Yeah. And I think you mojoed yourself out."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes narrow. "Fine." He vanishes.

And then he's at Dean's side, and he's stumbling forward—tilting, falling. Dean catches him across the shoulders before he can hit concrete, hitching him up. "Yeah," he mutters, "that's what I thought. You can't walk, can you? Can't even stand." Dean pulls open his trenchcoat, ghosting over the wounded side. "You bandaged it up at least, so you're not a total idiot." He shifts his grip, pulling one of Trenchcoat's arms across his shoulder, and leads him back over to the wall. Leans him against it.

His head tips back to rest on the stone. "I'm fine."

Dean pulls open his coat. "It's still bleeding."

He pulls the coat closed, glaring. "You made me tear my stitches."

"So I'll stitch it back up." Dean pulls the fabric open.

"It's fine."

"Yeah? Then how 'bout you walk on over to the car and show me just how fine you are?"

His throat jumps. He gauges the distance. Straightens. "Alright." He pushes away from the wall, shoving Dean's hands. He takes one step. Two, feet coming together. He clutches his side and grits his teeth and goes to take another step and he falls to one knee. He groans.

Dean finds his shoulder and works one hand beneath it to hoist him back up. Trenchcoat shoves him off. "I'm fine. I can do it."

"You're gonna hurt yourself. I didn't think you would actually try."

"Then why did you tell me to do it?"

"I thought it would make you back down and admit that you were hurt. Clearly, I underestimated your stubborn streak." Dean is trying to pull him back up, but Trenchcoat is fighting him.

"Regardless, I still intend to prove that I am fine." He pulls from Dean, slowly standing. He falls before he makes it up all the way, but shoves Dean away when he moves to help.

Dean throws his hands in the air. "You're a fuckin' idiot is what you are. You really think you can fight demons like this? You're gonna get yourself killed."

"So be it."

Dean feels chill. "Dude. No. Look at me." Trenchcoat turns to look, head angled up because he's still on one knee while Dean is standing. "If you were me and Sam were you, wanting to take on a battalion when he can't even stand, what would you tell him?"

He hesitates, then says, "That's he too important. That he's worth more than that." His head falls to face the ground. "That he should save himself to fight another day. A million more days. To take care of himself so that he can help me take care of you." He looks back up, "Because you need him."

"I need _you_ too. We can't win this war without you, Trenchcoat. Live to fight other battles. Let me and Sam take care of you for once."

The dark-haired man just kneels there, breathing. Dean waits. It's a long moment before the man slumps. He nods. "Alright." He doesn't fight Dean when Dean pulls the man's arm over his shoulders and helps him up, supporting him back to the car.

They manage their way through the doors and Trenchcoat leans back against the cushions, eyes on the roof. He makes no move to stop Dean as he pulls the trenchcoat open and unbuttons the dress shirt. Dean peels up the edge of the bandage. The wound is raw and gory beneath, the skin shredded, blood seeping out from where black thread has torn. There must be over twenty stitches. "How deep is it?"

Trenchcoat breathes. In. Out. "Deep."

"Are you bleeding internally?"

"Not anymore."

Dean's head twists up, trying to catch his gaze. This could be bad. "You stitch up something on the inside?"

"Hit my liver," he says. "But that's almost healed. The blood loss is just making me weak."

Dean redoes the broken stitches. Rebandages. Trenchcoat's eyes watch him the whole time. Dean finishes and puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him to lay down. "You need to sleep. Rest. Let your body recover."

"This body is not the problem. And I don't sleep."

"So what is the problem?"

"Nevermind," he says, eyes flicking down. "We should get back to Sam."

"You agreed to let me take care of you. I need to know what's wrong with you in order to do that."

"I don't think I really… agreed."

"Trenchcoat." There's a sharp warning in Dean's voice.

Trenchcoat sighs. "The blade the demon used. I told you before, it pierced my true form. It will take some time to heal."

"Anything I can do?"

He shakes his head.

"Then go to sleep."

"I don't sleep."

Dean is already backing out toward the door. "Well rest, then. Just don't get up and do something stupid. Correction. Don't get up _or_ do anything stupid."

"I'll just… lay here, then."

"Damn right, you will." Dean closes the door and goes around to the driver's seat.

Dean pulls the car away. He glances in the back. Trenchcoat has closed his eyes. His shirt is still unbuttoned, and his chest is moving slowly up and down; the deep breaths of sleep.

It's not too far to the motel. Dean parks right outside their door. He turns the car off. Turns to stare at the back. Their guardian's eyes are pinched in pain even when closed. His breaths are hitching ever so slightly, one hand over his bandaged side.

Dean pops his door and gets out to pull open the door to the back. He shakes Trenchcoat's shoulder. "We're there, come on."

Trenchcoat comes to violently. His eyes fly open, and they're full of panic. They catch on Dean but don't seem to recognize him. The next thing Dean knows, Trenchcoat is gone. Dammit. Dean pops out of the car, closes the door, and looks around. He hears breathing and follows it to find the man on the other side of the car, sitting against a tire, clutching his side. "I thought you were… I'm sorry."

Dean crouches next to him. "It's okay. I shouldn't've woken you like that. Hunters don't wake peacefully, I know that. I wasn't thinking." His eyes flick over to the door, "You ready to go in?"

He nods, and Dean gets beneath his shoulder and heaves him up. He's not any steadier, and he's leaning a scary amount of weight against Dean, probably even less than he should be. Dean somehow fishes out his key and leads him inside. He sets him on the nearest bed, then gets back up to close the door. "Sammy?!"

Sam comes racing out from the bathroom. "Dean, I thought you weren't—" His eyes find Trenchcoat on the bed. The man is hunched, eyes narrowed in pain, one hand against his side, shirt somehow rebuttoned. He's looking right at Sam. Sam draws to a halt. "Trenchcoat?"

"Yeah," Dean walks back over to the bed. Pushes on Trenchcoat's shoulder to force him to lay down. "Finally convinced him to let us nurse his wounds a little. There's a reason he's been zapping himself around so much today. Idiot can't even stand without support. He's lost a lot of blood."

"Is he okay?" Sam shifts to face Trenchcoat instead of Dean asking the man himself, "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't think that word means what you think it means. He needs rest." He raises an eyebrow at the man, "And a lot of it."


	7. Chapter 7

"I...I need help." The voice is gritty and deep and Dean knows who it sounds like, but the words and the way they catch, a little-too high pitched and rough, throw him off a little.

Dean finds himself straightening anyway, the caller's voice unsettling. "Trenchcoat?"

The voice hums.

Oh no. If _he_ needs help, he's probably more dead than not, and probably got caught on the wrong side of something huge. He's never asked for help before. Never. He's had a knife buried in his side and insisted he was fine. Dean shifts from unsettled to worried—scared. "What happened? Where are you? What's wrong?"

Sam hears the panic in his brother's voice and is instantly on alert. "Who are you talking to?"

"Trenchcoat," Dean mutters, listening carefully for the reply to his questions.

"I'm trapped." The voice grits out, smoother than before. A little less high.

"Where?"

"Not far. I don't know exactly."

"Just give me something to go off of. A direction. Building description. Anything."

Sam's already starting to pack his duffle. Dean's too.

"It's like a warehouse… Northwest of you, I think."

"Why can't you just fly out?"

The voice falls deeper. "I'm trapped. I… they know what I am and how to keep me grounded."

Dean nods, starting to get a feel for the situation a little. He takes his bag as Sam hands it to him and gets up. "Okay. What's got you? We walking into a fight?"

"No. They left."

"Why?" Dean and Sam slip out the door and to the car, Sam racing off to check them out.

"Left me to die," he says, grit softening.

Dean speeds up. "How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm fine."

As relieving as the normality and familiar stubborness of that statement are, all it does is worry Dean more. "I'll believe that when I get there. You know anything else about where you are?" Dean slots the key into the ignition, his bag already thrown in the back. Sam slips in a moment later, tossing back his own bag.

"If I remember correctly, there's a large sign out front. Something about…"

Dean conveys this to Sam and Sam pulls out his laptop and starts typing. Dean pulls them out onto the road, headed Northwest.

"Got it," says Sam, "... An hour out."

"Okay," Dean says into the phone, "Sam found you. We're gonna be there in less than hour. You okay 'til then?"

"Sure."

"Okay. We should hang up, keep your battery alive so you can call back if anything happens."

"Right. Goodbye, Dean."

Dean doesn't like the finality of that statement. "See ya." He hangs up.

* * *

There's only one room in the warehouse, so Trenchcoat is immediately visible.

He doesn't have his trenchcoat. He's shirtless, covered in bruises, feet bare and bleeding. His head is bleeding too. Tiny little streaks all around his skull, dripping down his face and neck.

He has wings. Huge and black and unmistakable in this light. They're bleeding too, feathers covering the floor all around him. And just beyond the feathers is a ring of fire, Trenchcoat at the center of it. He's chained to a cement block—a support column—and Dean can see where the links have cut into his skin. It looks tight, around his chest and wrists—it's crushing his wings against the column—and Dean wonders for a moment how he's even still breathing.

_Left me to die_. The words play over and over in

Dean's mind as he and Sam scramble forward. Sam tears out of his jacket and slaps at the flames. Dean barrels over them, hands at the chains, searching for the locks. "Fine, my ass."

Trenchcoat huffs. He's worked one hand free somehow, looks like maybe he dislocated his wrist to do it, and the phone is visible in his pants pocket. "You came."

Dean won't comment on how his voice breaks with the two words. He fishes out the lockpicks hidden in his jeans and gets to work. "Course we came, you idiot."

"You would've come for us," says Sam.

The lock clicks open. Dean doesn't like the way Trenchcoat is slumped, unmoving, not helping Dean at all as he tries to unwind the chains. Sam's gotten the fire out and moved to unbind his hands. "What's with the wings?"

"I fly. I have wings." Trenchcoat is breathing way too heavily now that Dean's unwrapped his chest. He slumps forward.

Dean catches him with an arm across his shoulders. "Okay, but why can we see them?" The man isn't doing much of anything to support his weight so Dean starts to lower him.

"They had a spell. Manifested them. Didn't want me to escape if the fire died down." He goes where Dean leads him, and ends up leaning back against the support column, legs crumpled beneath him, wings crushed behind him. Dean carefully straightens his legs. Sam hovers over the wings. "The fire?" he asks.

"Holy fire. I could not cross it."

"Weird," says Dean, moving up Trenchcoat's torso to check for broken bones and internal bleeding. Trenchcoat lets him. "Like a demon trap but for… whatever you are?"

"I suppose, though deadlier." He stiffens when Dean starts to move down his arms, pulling his left away. Dean alights on the movement, grabbing the arm and inspecting it, though Trenchcoat tries to pull it back. "Don't," he says.

Dean turns his arm over. There's a mark below the elbow, dark and black and big. "What's that?"

Trenchcoat yanks his arm away. With more force than he's used in any interaction they've had together. Sam raises an eyebrow. "It's nothing," says Trenchcoat.

Dean's gaze runs down the arm. "Your wrist is broken."

"Dislocated."

Dean holds his hand out. "Let me see it."

"It will heal." He starts to shift, tilting away from the column. He moves to stand.

"Whoa," says Sam, hands splayed in front of him in case the man topples back over.

Dean stands as well. "Trenchcoat, what're you doing?"

"You helped me, so now I should go." He sways forward and Sam braces his shoulder.

Dean supports his other one. "What? Dude, you're hurt. Go where?"

Trenchcoat's head tilts. "Just go."

Sam is frowning at him. "I thought you needed our help."

He nods. "I needed help to get out of the trap. I don't expect you to do anything else. I am grateful that you helped at all. You owe me nothing."

"Dude, that's not how this works."

"We're friends," says Sam, "We wanna help you. And you seriously need some first aid before you wander off to nowhere."

Dean shifts his grip on Trenchcoat's arm. "Don't you usually just follow us around anyway? You coming with us is kind of like cutting out the middleman."

"I don't understand." His balance throws sideways and the brothers lower him back to the ground. "You… _want_ to help me?"

Dean is back to checking him over. "Yeah, man. You've grown on us. We like you."

"_You like me_?" His voice cracks.

Sam nods. "Hard not to."

Trenchcoat's head shakes, "Nobody… Is this another trick? Naomi, stop this. Leave them out of it." He jerks away.

"Hey," Dean puts a hand on his cheek, stills him, "It's us, okay? This ain't a trick." He goes back to worrying over the broken skin, "Where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. It'll heal."

"What happened to your head?" Sam asks, squinting at the little marks that go all the way around, leaving trails of blood.

Trenchcoat shudders. "Nothing."

Dean looks up over Trenchcoat's shoulder. "Your wings okay?"

The man nods. "Sure."

"Come on, Trenchcoat."

"Cas."

"What?"

"Call me Cas."

"Okay, _Cas_, where are you hurt?"

He still hesitates. Stares at them for a moment, eyes narrowed in pain or suspicion or sorrow. A long moment. Then he relaxes a little, shoulders shifting down, neck rolling, "My back, mostly."

So Sam tips him forward, away from the column. Dean keeps Cas from falling and watches the horror and anger and sorrow that flashes across his brother's features. "Is it broken?" Sam asks.

"Probably. I think… I think parts of my spine and shoulders are fractured. It hurts to move."

"And… the markings?"

"Part of the spell to manifest my wings."

Sam hovers over it like he's not sure where to touch. Dean cranes his neck forward trying to see. He catches a glimpse of red lines and skin so bruised it looks black.

"And did they harm your wings?"

Cas tilts his head. "They're fine."

Dean raises an eyebrow, "They're bleeding."

"They'll heal. As will the rest of me."

Sam shakes his head. He's ghosting over the flesh of his back now, trying to find breaks, carefully avoiding the wings. "And how long is that gonna take?"

Trench—Cas's eyes flick to meet Dean's, then away. His throat bobs. "Not long."

Dean shifts his hold, pulling him further from the column to give Sam more access, hugging him a little. "You're still a rotten liar."

They practically drag him out to the car. His legs won't support much weight, and Dean doesn't want them to, the way his feet are bleeding. The carry-drag is hell on Cas's back, though.

He slumps in the back with a weary sigh. "Always liked this car," he mumbles.

Dean grins.

Sam gets in the back with Cas, "Don't encourage him."

Dean starts the car and heads them toward the nearest motel.

"Thank you," Cas says, Sam hovering him. "For coming. I…" his throat bobs.

_Left me to die_.

"It's okay, Cas." Dean stops him.

Cas shifts on the seat, wings bunching forward. "Thank you."

* * *

Dean has a nightmare that night. Dead eyes and a pale face and a too-still form, a gaunt body chained in warehouse, left to die, and never found.

He jolts awake. Trenchcoat-Cas-is on the bed next to him, Sam on a cot against the wall. They're alive. They're all alive. Cas is okay.

Dean stares at Cas and steadies his breathing, stares at the dark wings splayed out toward the floor. And as his eyes adjust to the darkness he frowns, because there's something dark below the wings-a stain on the floor maybe. Dean stares.

A plop sound is drifting toward him. Plop. Plop. Plop. Dean gets up.

It's blood. Blood dripping off the wing and onto the floor, Dean can see it now that he's closer. Dean reaches forward and just brushes one of the wings and Cas jerks awake, wing twitching from Dean's grip. Flailing. Waking Sam.

"Hey," Dean murmurs, reaching out to steady the wing, "Hey, it's okay. Your wing's bleeding. It's okay, Cas."

Cas settles. He stays calm long enough for Dean to bandage it up, Dean murmuring all the while. And he doesn't realize, but he's telling a story, a story about a kid who rolled out of bed and cut the corner of his eye.


	8. Chapter 8

Sam shakes his head and rolls his eyes, walking around the hood of the impala to the other side of the car. "It's good for you," he says to Dean, stepping down off the curb, bag thrown over his shoulder.

He glances down to grab the handle of the car and he sees, sticking out from beneath the frame, what looks like part of a leg—dress slacks.

Sam takes a harried step backward, dropping his bag to draw his gun. There's no car parked beside the impala so he goes back further, trying to see what's down there. He gets a glimpse of tan and panic courses through him because it's the same shade as—He drops to one knee. It's a trenchcoat. Black slacks and a trenchcoat, oh shit.

"Dean!" Sam drops his gun to barrel forward, arm reaching beneath the car. "Cas?" Cas has wedged himself behind the wheel. God knows how, the impala is such a low car. "Dean!" Sam's hands fist in Cas's clothing, pulling his form toward himself.

Dean races around, gun drawn, "What?" He sees Sam, arms disappearing beneath the car, slowly pulling out a trenchcoat and limp body. "Shit." He stows his gun and drops down next to Sam, grabbing fistfuls of trenchcoat and helping to pull.

Sam slaps a hand on his arm. "Stop, stop, he's behind the wheel, we have to pull him down first."

Dean adjusts to pull Cas the other way. "Cas?! Cas, can you hear us? Come on," Dean follows Sam's lead and slowly they pull Cas free; his legs and then his arms and torso and finally his face slides out from under the base of the car. His eyes are closed. He's pale and not moving.

Sam jams two fingers to Cas's pulse-point, face grimacing, "Jesus, he's freezing." He nods, pulling back his fingers. "Got a pulse, though."

Dean sets a hand on Cas's chest, feeling for the rise and fall of his lungs. Relief floods up through Dean with the lift of his fingers. "He's breathing. Is he hurt? You see blood?"

Sam glances back beneath the car, "No." He starts patting Cas down, pulling the trenchcoat open—Dean has to move his hand—looking for blood or rips or something. "No, I don't see anything."

Dean slaps Cas's face gently, "Cas? Cas, come on."

Cas's eyes flutter.

"That's it. Come on. Come on, wake up. Cas?"

Cas's face twists in pain. His head lolls a little.

"Open your eyes for me, come on. You okay?"

Cas groans. His eyes open to Dean looming over him, Sam looming next to him. His eyes widen in panic. He shifts, arms and legs scrambling—only one leg, the other is off somehow; movements weak and slow. He shoves at Dean and sits upright in one harried movement, backing away until he hits the car, his throat bobbing. He looks terrified.

"Hey," says Sam, hands up, "Hey, it's okay."

Cas's head jerks toward him. He brings his legs in, arms up to shield his torso and head—through he's still got a clear path of sight.

Dean sidles a little closer. "Cas? It's us. Sam and Dean. You okay?"

Cas vanishes. He reappears on his feet not four feet away, instantly collapsing down to his knees. He falls against the hood of the car.

Dean and Sam find their feet, turning and stepping slowly in his direction. "Cas?"

Cas's head spins at the sound of Dean's voice, face in a grimace, eyebrows pinched. He frowns, mouth twisting confusedly. He's trying to stand, hand on the car to push himself up. Something's wrong with his leg. He disappears again, only to reappear on the driver's side, collapsing into the side of the car, "What…"

"Cas, it's okay, don't fly off. What's wrong?" Sam's not moving toward Cas anymore. Neither is Dean. They move into his line of sight and no closer.

Cas looks up at them with confusion curling his face. He huddles against the car, and one hand reaches up to brush the side of it, head turning to look at it. "This is… the impala," he mumbles, fingers ghosting over the black paint almost reverently. They're shaking. "What…?" He looks over at Dean and Sam, both standing carefully still, palms out, watching him with a wary concern.

"Dean? Sam?"

"Yeah, Cas." Dean takes a careful step forward. Sam follows. "You okay?"

Cas groans. He moves his shaking fingers from the car to his forehead, eyes pinched shut. "Ugh. My head hurts. I don't… What happened?"

Dean and Sam keep coming, slowly, kneeling beside him on the concrete. "Don't know," says Sam, "Your leg okay?"

"My leg?"

"Your right one."

Cas looks down, back and forth between his feet like he can't figure out which side is his right. "My leg."

Dean tilts forward, squinting, "Hey, Cas, look at me for a sec."

Cas's head rolls up, and he's squinting just like Dean is.

Dean grabs his chin, angling his face. "Your eyes are dilated. You hit your head?"

Cas shrugs. "I don't know." His head twists around, slow at first and then faster, shaking frantically, "Where…" his hand comes up and hits the car. He turns to look at it. He relaxes, slumping against it. "The impala."

Sam surreptitiously scoots forward, hands ghosting over Cas's right leg.

Cas's head rolls around to look down at him, frowning. "Is that my leg?"

"Oh, Christ," says Dean. His hands come up to feel Cas's skull, looking for a bump or a gash or blood.

Sam just nods mutely in response to Cas.

Cas tilts his head, watching Sam squeeze gently as he checks for breaks or blood. "Did you want it?"

Sam's lips turn up.

Dean lets out a strangled huff of laughter. Cas's head feels fine. He leans back on his haunches. "No, Cas, he doesn't want it."

"Oh."

Dean nods. He tilts back to sit.

Panic flashes across Cas's face. His arm jerks up, hand hitting the impala, head turning to look at it. He relaxes, looking back at Sam, hand staying on the impala. "I'd give it to you if you wanted it."

Sam shakes his head. "That's okay. You keep it."

"I have another one." He looks around, pinched gaze roving over their legs. "Somewhere."

Dean's hand finds his forehead, massaging the temples as he shakes his head, but he can't stop smiling.

Sam is also smiling. "You can keep that one too," he says, patting Cas's calf.

"I'd give you anything," Cas mumbles, "Sam can have my legs and Dean can have my arms and you can each have a wing and…"

Dean's smile falls.

"...you could probably use some kidneys…"

"Okay."

"...and eyes, too, people donate eyes, don't they? You guys might need 'em, and my liver and my lungs and…"

"Stop," says Dean. It's not funny anymore.

Cas squints at him.

Dean shakes his head, "Just stop." He shifts his weight, "You hurt anywhere, Cas?"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"You look sad."

Leave it to Cas to be able to tell Dean is sad when he can't even find the legs attached to his body.

"I'm worried you're hurt, you seem… disoriented."

"Oh. Worried about me?"

"Yeah." Sam nods.

Cas flares with momentary panic again, arm jolting to find the car—his right because his left never moved away. His head turns to look, body losing its tension with a sigh. "The impala."

Sam frowns. His fingers reach forward, folding down Cas's collar, brushing his neck. There are tiny pinpricks of red all over the side of his throat. "Did someone drug you?"

Dean tilts up to look. He gently turns Cas's head, smoothing down the collar, checking the other side of his neck. More red marks.

"I don't know," says Cas. He stiffens a little as they ghost over his throat. He rubs his fingers over the impala and slowly relaxes.

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

Cas shrugs.

"Nothing?"

"I'm cold."

Dean staggers to his feet and opens the trunk of the car. He pulls out a blanket, comes back and drapes it over Cas, fingers lingering at the marks in his neck.

"What do you remember?"

Cas curls his fingers in the worn fabric reverently, hand falling from the car to grab it with both hands. "Thank you," he says.

"You can keep that too. In fact, we'll buy you a new one."

Cas looks up at him, eyes wide. He pulls the blanket closer, "Really?"

Dean nods, "Yeah."

Cas looks back down at the plain gray blanket. He brushes over it, curls into it. "No one's ever given me anything before."

Dean feels that statement like a punch to the gut. He puts a hand on Cas's shoulder, repeating his words to them, "I'd give you anything."

And then Cas tilts forward and throws his arms around Dean and just hugs him. It's startling, to say the least. Cas has personal space issues; in that he needs like three feet of personal space at all times. He's never initiated touch unless it was to heal or support. Never anything like this. It takes a moment for Dean to relax into it, hugging back. Cas is shaking and cold and he feels frail, his whole form heaving with breath. Dean rubs his back. "You okay?"

"Thank you." His fingers clench in the back of Dean's shirt. "Can we… can we be friends?"

Dean feels a flicker of confusion. He keeps trying to rub some warmth into Cas's back. "Uh… yeah. I mean, we already are. We are friends, Cas. You and me and Sam. We're best friends."

Cas tightens the hug, letting out a shuddery little breath—almost a gasp. "Best friends?" he asks, voice high and amazed and wavering like he's worried Dean will rescind it. His fingers tremble in Dean's shirt.

Dean hugs him tighter. "Best friends. Isn't that right, Sam?" Dean shifts his head to find his brother.

Sam nods, though Cas can't see, face heavy but amused. "That's right. Cas, you're definitely the best friend I've ever had." He smiles a little, meeting Dean's eyes, "Best friend Dean's ever had too."

There's another moment of Dean hugging Cas before Cas jolts backward, "Where…?" His back hits the impala and his hand comes up to touch it, head twisting. He relaxes. "The impala."

Dean misses the contact. "Yeah. How you feelin', Cas? You feel okay?"

Cas's head spins toward him. "Dean."

"Yeah."

Cas groans. He huddles into the blanket, looking down as if just noticing it, a look of awe on his face. His fingers brush the seams.

"You hurt anywhere, Cas?"

Cas groans. "Everywhere. What happened?"

Dean sighs. "We don't know," he says softly. He leans forward, grabbing Cas's arm and shoulder. "Let's get you up, huh? Somewhere warmer than the concrete."

Cas's rolls his head, hands clutching the blanket. He's not moving to help. "Okay."

"Can you walk?" Sam tilts forward to support Cas's other side, hands digging beneath Cas's shoulder and around his waist.

Cas's legs shake. He groans and starts to move, keeping careful hold of the blanket. It's not on him at all, just dangling over the ground in front of him.

Dean pulls it from his hand, trying to ignore it when Cas makes a hurt little whimpering noise, his face falling. Dean wraps the blanket around Cas's shoulders. "There." He grabs Cas's hand and lifts it to hold the blanket closed.

Cas looks up at him, eyes wide, his whole body trembling. "Thank you."

Dean shifts in closer and snakes an arm back around Cas's waist. "It's yours, Cas, I told you. I'm not gonna take it. Don't let anyone else take it either. That blanket is yours. 100 percent." They take a step forward just fine. Then they take another one and Cas's right leg gives out. He groans.

"What is wrong with your leg?" Sam asks, looking down. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes."

"It's not broken or bleeding or swollen. Do you know what's wrong with it?"

"It hurts."

"Okay."

They make it back to the motel door. Sam ducks away from Cas, mouth opening—he's gonna volunteer to re-rent the room, Dean knows he is—and then Cas jerks. He disappears, only to reappear with a thud and a bang back at the driver's side of the impala, instantly collapsing. He took the blanket with him.

Dean and Sam run back over.

"Hey. Hey, Cas, you okay?"

Cas brushes fingers over black paint. "Dean?"

Dean sighs. "Yeah." He runs a hand down his face, his other hand squeezing Cas's shoulder, looking at Sam. "He's gonna keep doing that, isn't he?"

Sam gives him a grimace. "While he's like this? Yeah, probably."

"Let's just get him in the car. You hear that, Cas? In the impala, come on." Dean grabs him under the arms, hoisting upward.

"The impala? Okay."

Sam opens the door and they maneuver Cas into the backseat. Cas jolts, but then his hand hits the cushion and he stills, fingers brushing over the seat. "The impala," he mumbles, his form slumping back.

Sam fishes another blanket from the trunk, tucking it in around Cas. "You can keep this one too."

"What?"

"These are your blankets, Cas. We're giving them to you."

"Oh. Thank you," he says, but he sounds confused. His hands curl into the blankets. His body curls into the seats. He lets out a breath. "Impala," he mutters, and then, "Thank you."

"Yeah." Sam pulls back a little. His adjusts the blanket to fold the end over Cas's leg and uncover his right one. He rolls up the dress slacks and Cas doesn't even seem to notice. The skin is almost black. Sam winces. He can't tell if it's bruises or if there's something on it. Sam ghosts over it with his fingers but the moment he touches skin Cas jerks and screams. Sam hits his head on the roof of the car as he startles. "Sorry, sorry. Shhh, hey, it's okay. I'm sorry, Cas. I'm not gonna touch it."

Cas sobs. He curls, bringing his leg in close, burying it beneath the other one.

Dean appears at Sam's side, a hand on his shoulder, his face drawn tight as he stares at Cas. "What was that?"

"Something's seriously wrong with his leg," Sam whispers. "Did you see?"

Dean nods. He shuffles past Sam and slides into the bootwell of the car, "Hey, Cas."

Cas looks over at him. He jerks, hand hitting the seat, fingers brushing it with a sigh. "The impala."

"Yeah, buddy, uh… you remember anything that happened before you got to the impala?" He brushes over Cas's neck, eyes flicking to his leg. "Someone hurt you, maybe?"

Cas pulls the blanket closer. "I don't know. Dean?"

"Yeah."

"Sam okay?"

Dean sighs. He scoots over and Sam crawls in next to him. "He's fine. Right here, see?"

"Hey, Cas."

"You look sad." Cas is still shaking. "It's cold. Are you cold? I can…you can have… " he untangles his hands from the blankets, pushing them off.

Dean stops him, pulling them back up. "Hey, no. You keep those."

Sam puts a hand on Cas's shoulder to hold the blankets there. "You keep those."

Cas burrows into them with a sigh. "Okay."

"Are you hurt anywhere other than your leg?"

"My leg."

Sam withers a little. "Yeah, Cas. You said it hurts."

Cas nods.

"Does anything else hurt?"

"My head. My chest." Cas shudders. "Everywhere."

"You mind if we look at your chest?" Dean's already reaching forward.

Cas jerks. "Where…?"

"You're in the impala, Cas." Dean takes Cas's hand and runs it over the seat. "Feel that? This is the impala. Don't fly off, okay? Can I look at your chest?"

"Dean."

"Yeah, Cas."

"Okay."

Dean pushes the blankets to the side and pulls the trenchcoat open. He starts to unbutton Cas's shirt.

Cas twists his head to watch.

Dean doesn't pull it open until he's undone all the buttons, mentally bracing for it to look black and dead. But when he shoves the shirt off to either side, the skin's not black. It's covered in red looping designs; little sigils or wards burned into Cas's skin. "Oh shit," he mutters, and beside him, Sam lets out a strangled sound.

"I'll, um…" Sam says hoarsely, pulling out his phone, "take a picture, send it to Bobby, see if he can tell us what they mean." He snaps a picture. "You hurt anywhere else, Cas?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah."

Cas curls into the seat, facing away from them and his layers slide down his back a little, revealing more sigils. "Everywhere," he says.

"Oh shit," says Dean, hand running down his face. "Okay, uh…" He reaches forward, pulling Cas's arms from the sleeves.

Cas jerks.

Dean is quick to assuage him. "You're in the impala, it's okay. It's Sam and Dean. We've gotta see these… these. Okay?"

"Okay." Cas relaxes.

Dean finishes fishing his arm from the sleeve. The burns are everywhere; from wrist to collarbone, and all across his back and chest. Dean rolls Cas and gets the clothing off his other arm. He folds them neatly, setting the shirt and trenchcoat beneath Cas's head as a pillow.

"Thank you," Cas says.

Sam takes more pictures. He leans over to Dean, mumbling, "You think there are more on his legs?"

"I'm… Yeah. I'm worried there might be."

Cas jolts. "Where…?"

"The impala," Sam and Dean say almost simultaneously. Sam pulls the blankets back over Cas's chest, hand lingering on his shoulder. "You're in the impala."

"Oh. Okay." He curls into the seat, fingers brushing the leather. "I like this car," he sighs. His fingers shake brushing over the blankets, face soft. "Is it always this cold?"

Dean mumbles something. He slides out of the car. "One second, okay, Cas?"

Dean turns the car on and the heat up, then gets back in the back. "Should warm up soon. You remember what happened?"

"What happened." Cas repeats. Or maybe he's asking, Dean can't tell.

Dean sighs. "You're hurt. You remember how you got hurt?"

Cas shakes his head. Then his eyebrows furrow. "I don't think they like me," he says.

Dean brushes his shoulder, voice soft, "Who?"

Cas shakes his head. Shrugs. Curls into the seat and away from them again. A tear drips down his cheek and he untangles a hand from the blankets to wipe it away. "Do _you_ like me?" he whispers.

Dean rolls him back over so he can meet his eyes. "Yes."

Beside them Sam nods. "We like you. We're best friends, remember?"

Cas jerks and groans, hand hitting the back of the seat, rubbing over the lines between cushions. He relaxes.

"You're in the impala," says Dean. "Who doesn't like you?"

Cas squints at him. "Dean?"

Dean holds back a sigh. "Yeah," he says, voice kind.

"Everybody."

"Did somebody hurt you?" Sam asks.

Cas turns to find him. "Hurt me," he repeats, and then stares up at the ceiling.

Sam touches Dean's shoulder. "I don't think we're gonna get anywhere with this," he murmurs.

Dean rubs his forehead. "Yeah. Bobby's?"

Sam nods and Dean gets out, just as Cas jerks and says, voice scared, "Where…?"

Sam brushes his shoulder, murmuring to him, "You're in the impala. It's me, Sam. You're safe here."

"Impala." Cas relaxes. His head rolls. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"My leg hurts."

* * *

Those sigils in his skin-that's how they learn Cas is an angel.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: I might go back and make edits to the story or add more but for now I'm going to call it complete. I didn't read over and review these last chapters much so I hope they're okay._

* * *

Sam is sitting at the table at the end of the beds when Dean wakes. His brother immediately rolls to his right and Sam frantically shakes his head, hissing "Hey," to grab his attention without waking Cas—the bundle of blankets curled up on the floor just below Dean, the edges of the pile disappearing beneath the bed frame.

"What?" Dean asks, voice groggy, eyes squinted. He follows Sam's waving and looks down, one leg hovering in the air. "Oh." He rolls onto his back and then fumbles his way off the other side of the bed.

He comes to sit by Sam, eyes on Cas, running a hand down his face as he wakes up. He glances over at the cot in the corner. "He took the blankets."

Sam nods. "Not the cot though."

Dean frowns. "Maybe we could put it between us next time, that's where he always seems to end up."

Sam glances over at Cas, mouth pursing as he ponders. "Yeah." After a moment he goes back to his laptop.

Dean keeps staring at Cas. He frowns. "Is he shaking?"

Sam's head pulls up. Cas is a pile of blankets on the floor. Trembling blankets. He frowns. "Nightmare, maybe?"

Dean doesn't even turn to look at him. His chair scoots backward. He trails toward the blankets and kneels beside them, hand hovering, "Cas?"

Cas jerks and startles, the blankets falling off his head and torso. His eyes land on Dean and widen. He throws himself at the man, arms wrapping around him.

Dean rolls backward in surprise, falling to sit, and Cas moves with him. After a moment Dean relaxes and his arms come up to enfold Cas. "You okay?"

Cas burrows his head into Dean's shoulder. "You're so warm."

Dean frowns. He lifts one hand to brush Cas's cheek—the only patch of skin he can reach. His fingers jerk back automatically and it takes a moment for his brain to catch up to why. "You're freezing." He lets go of Cas to scramble for the blankets on the bed—Cas doesn't let go of him—and he wraps them around Cas. "Sam."

Sam gets up. He brushes Cas's neck and wrenches his hand back with a swear. He grabs the blankets from the other bed and then jumps up to adjust the heater.

* * *

Cas is falling.

* * *

It's a hesitation, Cas at the door of the motel as the brothers exit. "Can I…"

The brothers stop, turning to look.

Cas looks sad and terrified. "Can I ride in the car with you today?"

"Yeah, Cas, sure." Dean adjusts his duffle over his shoulder, nodding.

Sam bobs his head with Dean, struck with surprise and a little worry. "You don't even have to ask."

Cas gives a flicker of a smile, shoulders relaxing just a little. "Okay."

"Everything okay?"

Cas gives another wimpy little smile. He doesn't say anything. Just starts walking forward toward the car, eyes down.

Dean and Sam share a look. They follow Cas, who pops the back door open and slides inside without another word. They throw their duffels in the back. "You know what that's about?" Dean's asking.

Sam closes the trunk. "No. He's not hurt, is he?"

"I don't know."

They walk around to their seats.

Cas grabs his blanket from where it's folded up under the seat. He lays down, facing away from them, and draping the blanket over himself, curling up on the seat.

Sam shares another look with Dean.

It's ten minutes later Sam hears the first sob. He doesn't recognize it at first but the sound is coming from behind him and he turns to look in the backseat. Cas is shuddering. The sound repeats, soft and wet, and Sam realizes exactly what it is. Cas is crying. He puts a hand on Dean's shoulder, turning further. "Cas, hey, you okay?"

Dean flicks his eyes over his shoulder. Another one into the rearview mirror. "Cas?"

Cas doesn't respond except to curl tighter into the seat. Dean pulls the car over and then turns to look in the back like Sam.

"Cas, you okay? What's wrong?"

Cas stays facing the seat. He takes a heaving breath. "I lo—I lost my wings," he whispers.

"What?" Dean and Sam are both turning further, scooting closer.

Cas sobs a little louder.

"Did you just say you lost your wings?" Sam asks, breathless. Horrified.

"What happened?" Dean has a hand on Sam's shoulder, whole body twisted to look at Cas.

"I'm falling," Cas says, voice small.

"So, what, you… you can't fly anymore? Do you… _wings_?" Dean asks, because he's a little out of his element here.

Cas pulls the blanket a little higher. "Yes," he mumbles.

"Are they… are you okay, Cas? Can we…" Sam looks at Dean, but Dean gives him a face that says 'Hell if I know what to do', "Can we do anything?" Sam finishes weakly.

"Can I ride in the car with you?"

Dean runs a hand down his face. "Yes, Cas, god."

"Of course," Sam breathes. "You don't have to ask. But is there… are they just gone?"

Cas rolls his shoulders. "I wish they were. They're…" Cas buries his face in the cushion. He mumbles something, but Sam doesn't catch it. Dean does, because his face goes white.

"What?" Sam asks, panic settling in as he looks back and forth between Cas and Dean. "They're what?"

Dean shakes his head, hand squeezing Sam's shoulder. "Decayed," he whispers.

Sam feels bile rising in his throat. He's hard-pressed to keep it down as images of rotten, septic feathers and bone fill his mind. "Can we do anything?" He chokes.

"No," Cas whispers.

"You can't... manifest them?" Dean asks, leaning past his seat.

Cas burrows a little more. "I don't want you to see them."

* * *

Cas screams. The room is full of blue flashes of light and Cas himself is surrounded with a halo of it, eyes full of light. The other flashes disappear and Cas keeps screaming, face twisted in agony. He falls onto his back, spine arching off the floorboards. Sam drops down next to him. "Cas!"

Ketch frowns, hand on the banishing sigil. He presses it harder.

The other angels zapped off fine, why—oh, son of a bitch, his wings. Cas can't fly anymore. Dean's gun is up, shots firing in rapid succession before he even thinks to do it. Ketch jerks away from the wall with a cry, his hand, arm, and leg bleeding. The screaming stops. Dean springs forward, grabs one of Ketch's wounds as he shoves him back and then slashes through the sigil with a line of blood.

"Oh my god." That's Sam's voice. Dean turns. Cas is slumped on the floor, imprints of his bare, ruined wings laid out beside him. Dean stops breathing. No. No, no, no, no, no.

Cas's chest hitches with a breath. His head lolls, eyes opening.

Sam's chest caves in, his breath comes out so hard. He grabs Cas and pulls him up into a hug. "You're alive."

Cas buries his face in Sam's chest, hands coming up to grab Sam's shirt. "They're gone." He whispers. And then he starts to cry. "They're gone." It's all too clear exactly what he's talking about.

Dean can't even imagine. Would it be like losing an arm? Both arms? His legs? They'd been useless, sure, but he'd still had them. There'd still been a chance that he would fly again.

Dean is frozen in place, but then Sam shifts his hand on Cas's back and Sam's breath catches. He turns his hand over and it's covered in blood. "Dean," he says, but Dean is already moving. He hesitates to kneel behind Cas because the ash of his burned wings are right there. He settles carefully between them, looking at Cas's back as Cas cries into Sam's chest. Blood is starting to seep through the trenchcoat—two places high up on the back, right where the wings—

Dean sets a hand on Cas's shoulder. "I'm sorry," Dean says, and it's so pathetic and useless and he doesn't know what to say.

Cas sobs. "They're gone."

Dean is gonna murder Ketch. His head twists up to find the man.

Ketch takes a step back as he meets the full glare of Dean's form.

"You son of a bitch."

"Dean," Sam warns.

Or maybe not.

"I'm gonna take Cas out to the car. His back look okay?"

Dean takes another look. It's soaking through the clothing real fast. "Might need stitches," he says. He rubs his hand between the wounds. "You'll be okay," he murmurs. It sounds pathetic.

Cas doesn't say anything. Sam and Dean help him up and he's off-balance. Tilting forward. "How do you walk like this?" he asks, voice ragged.

"Just one step at a time," Sam says, pulling Cas's arm over his shoulder.

Cas looks like a newborn foal just finding his legs. Wings helped him balance, probably. Added weight to shoulders and back and he doesn't know his own strength anymore.

The moment they're out the door, Dean is at Ketch's throat, shoving him back into the wall, gun digging into the other man's gut. "Give me one good reason not to kill you right the fuck now."

"We're allies."

The barrel of the gun digs in harder, undoubtedly bruising the flesh. "Funny. Try again."

"We are allies."

"Allies," Dean spits, "don't push down harder when they see eachother writhing in agony on the floor, when they see that all the other angels have gone. If you wanted to be allies, you should've thought long and hard before you touched anything that could hurt Cas."

"He is an angel."

"He's family. And you know what happens when you touch my family."

"Oh, honestly, Dean, this is getting out of hand. Now I'll let it slide that you shot me in your panic just this once, but-"

"Shut the fuck up."

* * *

Sam brings the screw up to put it in the wall. Cas jerks violently away, head ducking, arms raising, feet scrambling backward. He falls, and then just lays there breathing heavily.

"What? You're scared of screwdrivers?"

Cas finds his feet and bristles, shoulders bunched up tight. He's keeping his distance. "No."

"Then what—" Sam waves his arms as he talks, and the one holding the screw comes up closer to Cas and Cas flinches away—"You're scared of the screw?"

Cas just shrugs.

Dean teases him for it. All the time, and loves the way it pisses Cas off.

And then they find out why and the fear makes a scary kind of sense.

The angels had been searching for him. The betrayer. Only a matter of time before they caught up. And only a matter of time before the Winchesters rescued him.

Now Sam is pulling screws from Cas's skull and he's never going to use another one as long as lives.

"Okay, okay, okay."

Cas is shuddering trying to hold still. Dean is holding him close, trying to comfort him. "I'm sorry, Cas. About the screw thing. I didn't know."

"It's okay," Cas grunts.

Sam starts going over other little things that bother Cas in his mind. He twists a screw free, stained red nearly two inches. "Is this why you freak out around needles too?"

"No." Cas shudders. "No, the needle thing is different."

"Tell us about it. Get your mind off… this." Sam carefully grabs another screw.

"Naomi would insert a drill with a needle on the end through… through the eye. And play with your mind."

"Shit, Cas."

Cas's face twists as Sam dislodges another screw. "I'm sorry it bothers me."

Dean shakes his head. "Don't be. You have every right to hate those things. We shouldn't've teased you for it, I'm sorry. Any other fears that are a little too grounded?"

"Fire," says Cas, "But I think you knew that one."

"Yeah."

"Scalpels. Beetles." He shudders. "Thread." He touches his throat, eyes down, "Barrels. Fans. Pliers. Hammers..." On and on he goes, and Dean grows sadder and sadder.

"Okay. We gonna get any of those stories?"

"You can have all of them."

"So scalpels?"

"The short version?"

"Sure."

"Zachariah enjoyed using memories for… re-education. To teach why humanity was… He enjoyed how much of the experience we could feel. Live. I can't tell you how many times I was autopsied alive."

Dean doesn't want to ask about the others. Not if they're all going to be like this.

Sam does it for him, pulling out the last screw, careful and slow and hands so very steady despite the pale tinge his face has turned. "Beetles?"

"We fought a goddess, Bastet, but another goddess had a quarrel with her. She came with her dominion; beetles. Flooded the room with them. Floor to ceiling, like a pool of water. Around me, inside me, and I would've drowned had I required air to breathe."

"Okay," says Dean, because it looks like Cas is taking a breath to continue. "Okay, next one." Sam finally gets the screw out and lifts the device off Cas's head. He throws it across the room. Cas leans forward out of Dean's grip. Then twists to lean against the wall, breathing a little too heavily. "Thank you."

Dean worries at the circles in his skull, the blood stained in lines all down his face. "You gonna heal?"

"Eventually." He rolls his head a little. "Did you want to hear the rest?"

"Yeah, Cas, It'd be nice to know what bothers you. What you're going through when these things crop up."

Cas wants to tell them, Dean thinks, as he continues, "Thread." He wants to tell someone. To make the things he's scared of seem less foolish. "Ishim enjoyed… preparing us, I suppose, for what we might face in battle. 'Imagine,' he'd say, 'a swarm of demons (or leviathans or a knight of hell) breaking our defenses. Getting the upper hand,' and there were a few times he used string—thread—in his demonstrations. He'd sigiled it, I think, because I could never break it. He'd demonstrate throttling or capture or he'd use it to… he sowed our mouths shut, once. Our eyes another. There were a few times when he would stitch our feet together. Force us to plan elaborate escapes only to have us fail. He wanted to prepare us for many torture techniques, I believe. Train us not to break. I only broke once. He threaded me," Cas lifts his hands, trying to show them, gesturing to the backs of his shoulders, "into the wall," his hand moves down to outline his torso and arms and upper legs, "all around until I couldn't move hardly an inch. Demanded I tear myself free. 'It's just string, Castiel. How pathetic you are.' And I tried. I… I tried, but all I did was tear myself. I couldn't get free. So he got angry. Punished me. Left me there for a few months." Cas shakes his head, "I don't like thread." His hands twitch. "Or needles."

"Oh my god." Dean's not sure which brother says it. Maybe both of them. "All your stories are like this, aren't they?"

"Why?"

"I can't… I can't do this here." Dean stands. "Tell us the rest when we're all safe in the bunker. Christ, Cas, you were majorly fucking abused. You were freakin' tortured your whole life, you know that?"

Cas stills. "What?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that stuff is so far outside the realm of 'okay' that it's in an alternate universe. You were tortured. Repeatedly. Continuously. By your family."

Cas goes still. His eyes looking through them. His eyebrows furrow. "Oh," he says, after a long moment, and his mouth twists.

Dean rubs his forehead. He grabs Cas beneath the shoulders. "Here," he lifts him, keeping an arm on his back. "Back to the bunker." He propels Cas forward and Sam trudges along beside them. He wonders how many times they're gonna do this. Learn things Dean wishes he could erase. He can erase them—or fill Cas and Sam with so many other good memories that the bad just falls out. There's no room for it. There won't be room for it.


End file.
